


The Negligence of Angels

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Holmes and Watson follow up on the callow trail of a multiple murderer, they uncover a deal more than they bargained for.  And in matters of the heart, the two must each lend a gentle shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Shakes of a Lamb's Tail

Eighteen-eighty-eight had been a year of bittersweet. Woven in-between the moments of elation and exuberance, of family wedding and of birth, were tight strands of loss and mystery, of sorrow and regret. Somehow, regardless, Holmes and I had manoeuvred around these obstacles, and lingered by the pleasures, which were – to our great gratitude – the more plentiful. The Winter saw my friend become an uncle, to tiny Jeremiah. To my joy, I accepted an honorary placing of the same. We celebrated Christmas, with its promise of a new year brighter and eventful, in all of the ways that my friend might prefer, with fewer of the distractions that might detain him in their knowing torment.

Eighteen-eighty-nine, then. The early February, to be more exact. And cold, of course; it was morbidly so. We seemed always to be wrestling against the London rain, its snow, its wind. But warm and safe beside a blazing fire, and as much within the cosy, swaddled quarters of our dear landlady, Mrs. Hudson, that late morning. I had been inside there often; Holmes the rather less so, given his reluctance to idle chatter or very much more than a fleeting step across the threshold to summon tea, request a meal or to collect a postman's package.

“A very Happy Birthday, once again,” I said, raising my glass of something pale and sparkling and exceedingly delicious. “But a great much more of this and we shall be fast asleep in our chairs within the hour.”

“Och no,” said she, “it is only a drop, it will not harm you.” She smiled at us both. “Take another sandwich, Mr. Holmes, or have some cake? I can see you still need feeding up; there's not a spare scrap to you.”

I chuckled at my friend's discomfiture.

“Holmes is one of those lucky fellows who never has to worry about his weight,” I said. “I declare that he could fit a Shire horse between two rounds of bread, and not be the heavier by an ounce.”

“You both make it sound as if I am skin and bone,” he replied, his lips twitching wryly. “I promise you that I am not.”

“Well, I would think that our Dr. Watson should know,” said Mrs. Hudson, with a small giggle. She raised her hand up to her mouth. “I meant, of course, by his tending to you when you get yourself into a bother, Mr. Holmes. Your scrapes and bruises. That is what I meant. Do have some cake.”

We spoke, then, of her own family: her daughter and her son, both in happy wedlock and with children of their own. But alas, outside the city, and therefore not seeing them as often as she might like. Her husband, long passed away; her acceptance and contentment with her life as it was now. So many friends, so much to do; no, she was not lonely. Why, that afternoon she would be taking tea with Mrs. Turner, and then that evening, a delightful dinner with her son-in-law and daughter.

“I have not seen them in several months,” said she. “I am so very looking forward to it.”

“You shall have a marvellous time,” I said.

“As long as they are paying,” said Holmes. “I recommend that you order the most expensive dish upon the menu.”

“Oh, you,” said she, set to giggles again. “You are so dreadful, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is merely what I should do,” said he, with a wink.

The doorbell rang. We groaned as one.

“Perhaps it is Mrs. Turner, come early,” said our landlady, brightening. “Do please excuse me, gentlemen.”

She bustled to her door and out to the hall, where we heard her light footfall along to the main entry, as the doorbell chimed once more.

“I have no idea as to why I groaned,” said Holmes. “If it is a client, then I shall be ecstatic.” He yawned.

“The wine is making you drowsy,” I smiled. “I did warn you.”

We listened to the voices away through the wall, official and advancing.

Mrs. Hudson returned alone, apologetic.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes,” said she, “but it is Inspector Lestrade here to see you. I sent him on up to your rooms.”

“Why, there's no need to apologise,” said Holmes, springing up, all but turning his wine glass over. “We must speak with him at once. Thank you most kindly for the refreshment and, yes, happy birthday and, well, yes.”

Out in the hall, my friend seized me by the shoulders.

“A case!” he exclaimed, overjoyed. “It must be a case, John!”

“Yes,” I replied, already wistful over the half-touched plates of sandwiches and cake. “A case. How wonderful.”

I followed his bounding leap up the stairs, and into the sitting-room where the door stood ajar. Inspector Lestrade was standing in front of our fireplace. His back to it, he was warming his legs and sighing with pleasure. He looked up as we entered and raised his hand in a greeting.

“It is bitter outside,” said he, matter of factly. “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson.”

“A good afternoon indeed, Lestrade. I fear if you stand any closer to that, you shall be in danger of becoming consumed by the flames.”

The Inspector took a bashful step forward. At our invitation he sat down upon the sofa, rubbing his hands, brushing the stray raindrops from his collar.

“Bitter and wet,” he added, with a shiver for good measure. “Will this weather never end, I ask myself.”

“If you continue to ask only yourself, then you will never get a sensible answer,” my friend replied with a glint. “Come now, I suppose we had better warm you up with some tea, and then you can tell us why you are here. Watson, would you be so kind?”

I trudged back down to Mrs. Hudson to request a fresh pot of tea. I apologised profusely for making her toil a never-ending one on this, her special day. The good woman flapped her apron, declared it was no bother, that this was what she was here for, after all, and to _Get back on upstairs with you now, Doctor. The tea will be with you in two shakes of a lamb's-tail._

Inspector Lestrade had edged back to the fireplace when I re-entered the sitting-room, with both he and Holmes now smoking quietly, as old friends might. I took up my notebook and pencil and found a chair close to them both.

“How have you been keeping, Lestrade?” I enquired. “Is all still busy at the Yard?”

The Inspector let out a wreathed huff of tobacco smoke.

“Yes, we are busy,” said he. “But it is mostly the usual. Nothing that would tempt the likes of Mr. Holmes. Well, until very recently, that is. And that is why I am here.” The Inspector looked from one to the other of us, conspiratorially. “I would have sent Gregson over to see you, except that he has been in the foulest, strangest mood of late. I can scarcely do anything with the man.”

“Never mind Gregson's temper,” said Holmes, leaning forward and keen for the scent. “Tell us what has happened in this fresh case that is so unusual, and spare no detail.”

The Scotland Yarder nodded and stubbed out his cigarette, before plucking a second from its case and striking a match. We were delayed a minute further by the arrival of the teapot.

“Sandwiches too! And cake!” exclaimed our friend. “Why, how very civil, Mrs. Hudson, how very civil of you indeed.”

Holmes's irritation was fairly tangible, but there was little he could do as the Inspector and I set to, enthusiastically devouring the contents of the tray. One may have imagined that the neither of us had eaten in a week; but I should rather blame it upon the energy expelled to keep a body warm in this cold weather, and that quite as much as the deliciousness of the food itself.

“If you are both _quite_ finished,” said Holmes.

We wiped our lips and set down our teacups. Inspector Lestrade brushed down his suit front, beamed in repletion and lit his third cigarette of the afternoon.

“It is murder, Mr. Holmes,” said he, his face suddenly grave. “And worse than that, it is more than one. It is multiple! It is the strangest thing.”

“Finally,” said Sherlock Holmes, sighing and leaning back deep in his chair. He steepled his fingers, crossed his long legs and closed his eyes. “Do continue, Lestrade. Multiple murders. Hmm. _Excellent._ ”

“Not so excellent for the victims or their families,” replied the Inspector, bristling slightly. “People are suffering, Mr. Holmes, and that is why I come to you.”

Pausing a moment to draw deeply upon his cigarette, Lestrade continued:

“The first was a little over two months ago. Since then, it has been one every two or three weeks, and all within the area of Camden Town. The last was six days ago. The bodies were each discovered in empty ground-floor rooms of run-down, abandoned properties, strangled to death with some type of thin cord, and bound hand and foot. They each had considerable bruising to their arms and back, Mr. Holmes, as if repeatedly struck by a bar, or a stick. That's four bodies then, up until now, and we would rather there weren't any more.

“You see, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, is that there's no evidence – no trace whatsoever – of the fellow who carried out these attacks. And as for motive, well, your guess is as good as mine. Now, here is where it gets odder. They were all telegraph boys, Mr. Holmes, sir.”

Holmes opened his eyes slowly. 

“ _Telegraph_ boys,” he repeated. “Hmm. Now that stirs my memory. I recall reading something of it. How old?”

“The youngest was sixteen. The eldest, twenty-three. All were assaulted while they were doing their daily duty, delivering telegrams – or attempting to. Wicked, that's what it is. The telegraph offices in the area are all in uproar, as you can imagine. Were they each carrying something of value? If they were, then whatever it was has been stolen. Or was someone wanting to intercept a telegram before it reached its rightful owner? We at the Yard are fairly stumped by it.”

“Any additional harm to the bodies?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Only abrasions from the strangulation and the bruising, as I mentioned.”

“Was there any connection at all between the boys? Were they employed at the same office? Had they been acquainted with one another?”

“We found no connection,” replied the Inspector. “They worked for different offices, and they did not socialise to the knowledge of their families.”

“Better that you should have called me in from the first,” said Holmes, with some severity. “These early trails are now quite cold. And the last six days ago? Upon my word, Lestrade, what have you been doing with your time? It does not help that you say you have no clue as to what the attacker may have been seeking, or if the attacks were truly random. At the least, please furnish me with the details of the victims and locations, and your small findings up to this point, and I shall make my own enquiries. You might continue still with yours, and we shall cross reference with each other.”

The Inspector passed across an envelope, the contents of which Holmes glanced at briefly before tucking inside a waistcoat pocket.

“Thank you,” said he.

“Thank _you_ , Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade. “I shall have another sandwich now, if you might oblige me. Is there any tea left in that pot?”

We sat a while together then, and our talk, at length, turned around to lighter topics. The Inspector was keenly interested to receive updates on Mycroft Holmes's family life. These were of equal amusement to myself, as my friend relented in the telling, for his elder brother's home was still fairly in a _“pandemonium”_ , as he would put it. Sophronia's mother resided there still. Nettie, the new nanny, ruled with an amiable rod of iron. Baby Jeremiah, for his part, squalled on relentlessly from dawn 'til dusk. Sophronia radiated maternal happiness; Mycroft did paternally and tentatively likewise, but from beneath the fluttering parasol of a semi-permanent headache.

Lestrade guffawed heartily upon hearing all of this.

“Aha, see, that is what happens,” said he, slapping his knee in mirth. “The wife's relatives become involved, and _bang!_ Ha ha! My own lot are not as young as that, but it's still a merry bedlam. Well, well.” He rose slowly to his feet, took up his hat, buttoned up his coat. “I had best be off now, gentlemen, and sorry to keep you as long as I did, Mr. Holmes. We shall keep in touch with each other, yes, about this dreadful affair? Very good. Farewell for now, then.”

Holmes stood by the window and watched our friend's departure down the street. He turned back into the room.

“You ate six sandwiches, John, I counted,” he said, accusingly. “And yet _another_ slice of cake.”

I laughed.

“No point in its going to waste,” I replied. “Would you not like me as much, if I grew a round stomach?”

“I do not think that I would,” said my friend, in a mischief. He caught me up in his arms and kissed me. “You are perfect just the way that you are.” He nudged at my nose. “You must never change a hair, let alone a single inch of you.”

“That might be slightly difficult in the long term,” I told him, softly stroking his jutting shoulder blades through the thin material of his shirt. “Aren't you in the slightest bit _cold?_ Brr!” I shivered. “So what are we going to do now?”

He pulled away from me reluctantly. “I had best read up on these notes that Lestrade has provided. Two months, John. Two months! I declare that a fellow's pride can do as much damage, sometimes. They must be employing London Zoo's chimpanzees as the new breed of officer...”

And so he sat in his chair by the fire, and he read through his typewritten papers. He did not notice Mrs. Hudson as she cleared away the tea-cups and the plates. I took my old place opposite, read the news sheet and smoked a pipe, and then watched my reclusive genius as he formulated his next step.


	2. Waifs and Strays

The combination of the food and wine, the latter taken so singularly early, had the effect of sending me drifting into a drowse. I felt my eyelids drooping and my head begin to loll, and the combined sounds from the fire and the rattling wind, and the rustling papers from my friend sat close by, all sweetly faded.

I awoke with a start. The room was pitched in darkness now, and chill. The fire had dwindled. My neck was cricked. I yawned and stretched and looked about me. Holmes was still seated in his chair, his legs drawn up, a tasselled shawl around his shoulders. He had lit a small lamp upon the table, the light from it reflecting on his face, all concentration.

“It's cold,” I said. “Why ever did you let the fire go out?” I jabbed at the hearth with the poker. “For heaven's sake.”

He looked up from his reading.

“I did not notice,” he replied. 

“It's pitch black, too,” I grumbled, padding across to draw the curtains and to light the remaining lamps. “What time is it?”

Holmes sighed. He pulled out his pocket-watch.

“Half-past four,” said he. “Time for another half-dozen sandwiches and a cake.”

“Don't be facetious,” I said. I stood behind his chair, leaned in and kissed his temple. Then, soft in his ear: “How is your study progressing?”

He smiled. 

“Well enough.” He was yawning himself, now, and reaching out to grab my sleeve. He hauled me in to perch as an awkward crow upon the arm-rest. “It will be an early start tomorrow, for I intend to visit the locations where the bodies were discovered. Will you come with me?” 

“Yes, of course.” I glanced at his page of pencil jottings. “It seems a curious, grisly business. I hope that we have not been brought in too late.”

“Well, we shall see,” said my friend. He rubbed my arm briskly. “John, you're cold.”

I rolled my eyes at him.

Mrs. Hudson was away at her birthday endeavour. I set to relighting the fire and then, with the warmth permeating the freeze, turned my thoughts to the evening. (You must forgive me if I seem overly preoccupied by food. The state shall be only temporary.) I persuaded Holmes that a fine dinner at Simpson's might be just the treat we needed. He acquiesced, to my surprise. At least the driving rain found decency within itself to cease, during the minutes of the journey to and back from. We ordered baked crab, and roast saddle of lamb. Our sommelier recommended a remarkable young Burgundy to accompany the main meal. We sat at a corner table, and watched and talked and stole forkfuls from each other's dishes. Late then, so it was, when we eventually rolled home to Baker Street.

“Wait,” said Holmes, halting at the foot of the hallway stairs. “What was that?”

We strained our ears to listen. A faint sound of sobbing, from another room. Some murmured comfort from a voice we could not discern.

“Oh my goodness,” I said, all good cheer evaporated. “What has happened?” I took a step toward our landlady's door, and then hesitated. “Holmes, should we?”

“No,” said he. “We should not. Leave it until the morning, John.”

“But--”

My friend took me by the elbow and steered me firmly up the stairs.

“It is none of our business,” he said. “Not in the middle of the night, at any rate, to be rapping on people's doors at the slightest sound.”

I was deeply unhappy to leave it so, regardless.

“Something must have happened with Mrs. Hudson,” I hissed. “What if she is ill, and requires some assistance?”

“The weeping was not Mrs. Hudson's,” replied Holmes. “So we should not intrude.”

“How can you tell? Her daughter's, then? Oh dear.”

We reached our rooms, and removed our coats, our scarves and hats. I was silent, pensive. Holmes squeezed my arm.

“You are a good man, John Watson,” said he. “Let us to bed, and we shall see about it in the morning.”

The wind rattled in the rafters, and listen as I might I could discern no further sounds from down below, neither voice nor door-latch. My sleep was fitful, due in part, perhaps, to the rich food and the wine. My friend curled beside me beneath the covers, his even breathing a calming rhythm in the centre of the gale. The previous week, he had poured away the remaining contents of the phials that had nestled for so long inside their morocco case. He had made no great show of it; had mentioned it to me only in passing, and had disposed of the neat box with neither dramatics nor sentiment. A broad step for him to take, and the weight thus lifted, we resumed our lives. I had faith he should retain the strength to keep temptation in abeyance.

The following morning was grey and clouded. I rose early, before seven, had made my toilet and descended to the sitting-room to find the fire unlit, the breakfast table bare. Anxiety gnawing, I paid a call to Mrs. Hudson. At my third set of soft raps, the door opened an inch and wider yet.

“Oh, Doctor, it is you!” said she. “I am so very sorry about there not being any breakfast.”

“My dear, that is not the reason for my knocking. But is there something wrong, and can I be of any service?”

She smiled up at me, touched my hand and beckoned me inside. The room was warm, if feebly lit, but in a corner upon a stuffed sofa curled a small figure, a blanket bundle.

“Hush now,” said Mrs. Hudson. “We must not speak so very loudly, or we shall wake him.”

I peered closer at the bundle.

“Good gracious, it is Billy!” I exclaimed softly. 

The boy stirred slightly at his name.

“I found him sat upon our doorstep when I returned home late last night,” said she. “And with his face streaked from his wailing. He started up again, soon as he saw me. I brought him in and did my best to comfort him. He was chilled straight to the marrow, Doctor. I made him a cup of hot milk and set him down by the fire.” The landlady leaned over and gently stroked the lad's hair. “He has run away from home,” she whispered. 

“And the boy was alone, at that time of the night?” I frowned. “Did you not see Wiggins, or one of the other Irregulars?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

The lad opened his eyes now and blinked up at us both.

“Billy,” I said, “how are you feeling, my boy? Don't be alarmed, you are safe.”

The little fellow scrambled up and drew his knees close to his chin. He recognised me, uncurled a little from his coil, and sniffed.

“Came to see you last night,” said he, in a waver. “You and Mister 'Olmes. But you weren't in. So I sat out in the cold until Mrs. 'Udson came 'ome.”

“Billy, my dear, your aitches,” Mrs. Hudson corrected gently.

The boy winced.

“Hawfully sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” 

He braved a smile at me. “I din't have hanywhere to go, so I came here. Ran away, I did. Ma and Pa want me to find _work_ , Doctor.”

I sat next to the young Billy and leaned forward to meet him.

“Is that what this is all about?” I asked. “Your parents wish you to seek employment?”

He sniffed and nodded, miserable.

“You are of an age now that you might do so,” I said, aware that my words were of little comfort. “You are twelve years old now, yes? But you look at me as if that were a bad idea! Why, imagine, earning a pocketful of money for your family. That will make you almost a man. Think of how proud you would make your mother and father.”

The boy kicked up a wail. “But they want me to be one of those telegraph boys! And I don't wanner! Lots of jobs there, and I know why, 'cos they keep getting snuffed out, that's why! I don't _wanner_ be snuffed out.”

“I don't suppose that you do,” I said, glancing up to Mrs. Hudson who hovered above us anxiously. Without a word spoken she bustled out to the kitchen, bringing back some hot, sweet tea for our sad refugee. “Mr. Holmes is going to catch the fellow who is doing these terrible things, Billy.”

“Will 'e do it before I get snuffed, Dr. Watson?”

“You are not going to get snuffed,” I told him firmly. “And nobody else will either, I promise you. But there must be other positions that you could find. A telegraph boy is not the only paying work in this city.”

“But it pays _good_ ,” replied young Billy. “On account of no-one wantin' to do it. Nearly double what I'd 'ave if'n I took on somethin' at the baker or the tailor. And Pa says I'm big enough to take care of meself and I shouldn't be hafraid of bein' a telegraph boy. But I don't _wanner_.” He gulped his tea.

“Your family must be worried after your not returning home last night,” I said. “Billy, you must go back home. No, no, don't look at me like that. We shall sort something out, that's my promise to you. Listen to me. Tell your parents that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are going to help you to find a position, and that they have no need to worry, but if they do have any concerns then to come and talk to us directly. Can you do that for me?”

The boy nodded fervently.

“Good chap. Now, as soon as you have finished your tea, go on home with you. Come back and see us tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Hudson followed me out into the hall. She fretted at my sleeve.

“Oh, Doctor, what are you going to do? Is it true what Billy tells me, about the telegraph office?”

“There have been a number of incidents, yes, and that is why we must put our heads together and find a way to help this lad. Tell me, Mrs. Hudson, does your friend Mrs. Turner need a house-help, or do you know of any well-paying posts for a scamp like this within our neighbourhood?” 

“Let me think a while on it, Doctor,” said she. “For now I must be getting on with your breakfasts. Oh my soul, your late, late breakfasts.”

After enquiring as to her evening, and if she had enjoyed the earlier of it for the most part (yes, she had, so very much, and thank you), I climbed back upstairs. I discovered Holmes dressed and spruced and seated at the breakfast table, tamping down his pipe. He looked up quizzically at my entrance. I told him all that had transpired.

“The boy has no imagination if he thought _that_ to be running away,” said my friend. “Two long strides from his doorstep to ours. And now, you have promised him what, exactly? If you really believe that I have time to make enquiries with every tradesman across my path, then you are quite mistaken, John. I have _work_ to do today. As do _you_. Now, where is breakfast? And why is the room so blasted cold?”

“You are impossible,” I said.

“Well,” said he, affecting hurt, “you know what I am like without my coffee.”

By eight o'clock, we were outside, muffled against the wind and striding forth. With two hot cups of coffee and three pieces of buttered toast and egg inside him, Holmes's equilibrium was restored. Consulting the paper that Lestrade had provided, we headed for the first of the four grim locations. 

An unassuming property, the more dilapidated it revealed itself to be as we trudged up to its entrance. Crudely secured, Holmes put his shoulder to it, and the door swung wide open. A forlorn vista: naked floorboards, peeling paint, devoid of furniture.

“What a miserable place,” I said, looking around. “Which room was the body found in?”

“The front one here,” said Holmes. He began to traverse the small space, peering closely into each corner, kneeling and craning his neck inside the fireplace. 

“I find it incredible that any telegraph boy would enter here of his own accord,” I said, watching as my friend crossed over into the next room. “It is desolate. Holmes? What do you think?” 

“I _think_ you are not using the brain that you were given,” Holmes replied, his voice distant. “The boy had a job to do. He was tricked by the recipient. He was forcibly drawn inside, perhaps. Or the crime was carried out elsewhere.” I heard my friend tut loudly. “And here I am, theorising in front of the facts, and that really will not do.” Holmes reappeared briefly in the doorway. “I hardly expect to find anything useful here, in any case. The scent is too cold. I can only hope to obtain a feel for the location and the etcetera.” 

He disappeared once more. I heard his boots upon the stairs to take a circuit of the first floor rooms. I traipsed through to the back, equally as barren as the front. I began to wonder who might have lived here, before abandonment and ruin. A loud caterwaul of machinery from an adjacent yard drowned out my friend's return. I started at his hand touch to my shoulder.

“Come,” said he, “let us go.”

The second building was two streets away, and yet another near derelict, propped up by a large stables in current use. We found no greater fount of information at this new address, so similar was it to the last. 

“A most salubrious locale, John,” said my friend.

“Not even remotely,” I said. I ducked into a small shop to procure a newspaper and a book of matches. The morning's headlines were the usual political intrigues and petty scandals. “You know, Holmes, I am surprised that more has not been made of this in the papers. Do you not find it odd? I cannot recall reading anything.”

“I spotted one or two small columns,” Holmes replied. “It is true that they have not been well documented. Let us continue.”

Holmes's earlier declaration withstood that if any traces existed, then Lestrade's men should have long trodden them in. Both third and fourth properties, close by the train station, revealed nothing of worth. Holmes was not perturbed in the slightest; he was no doubt thinking of meetings and interviews, more positive fodder. At last, with a grunt, he took hold of my arm and we moved on to less hostile environs.


	3. Imposter

“But I have answered all of these questions several times before, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Would you care to enlighten me as to why I should reiterate for a third?”

The central telegraph office in Camden Town was a whirling burr of industry. Tragedy appeared not to have affected its traffic. Its staff, nevertheless, seemed to me nervous and morose; polite yet clipping their responses as if they themselves were lines of telegraph. After some small negotiation we were introduced to Morris Featherbank, the district manager, in whose cramped office we now sat. The man himself sat opposite behind a desk piled high with forms and thick manila. His manner was not effusive. Skeletally thin and funereally dressed, he sported an incongruously heavy moustache that appeared to carry with it the very real threat of overbalancing the rest of him.

Holmes smiled thinly at the gentleman.

“I appreciate that you must be an extremely busy man, Mr. Featherbank. However--”

“That's damned right, I am,” the fellow interrupted, exhaling loudly. “Don't you lot ever _talk_ to each other at Scotland Yard? First there was that Inspector chap who came around; what was _his_ name? Dregson? And then another fool who called himself by some silly French-sounding name. Haven't a hope in hell of remembering _that_ , so don't even ask me to. And then a third: a blazing rude idiot who was asking questions about the lads that we have left. And now there's you. So that makes _four_. Which is worse than three.”

Mr. Featherbank drew in a breath at last and scowled at us. He reached behind, across the paper mountains, for his teacup. We were not offered a refreshment. I noticed how Holmes's own attempts at civility had ebbed slowly away during the course of this barrage, and now were set to tight-lipped stone. For what he was about to receive, I held every sympathy for Mr. Featherbank Esq., Office Manager, Camden Town Telegraph.

“ _Mr._ Featherbank,” said my friend, drawing himself up the ever straighter upon his chair – the better to launch his verbal diatribe – “I think that I should like to clarify one or two minor points, before you burst that bulging vessel in your forehead. Firstly, I am a consulting detective; the only one of my kind in the world. I work independently of Scotland Yard. I greatly prefer to form my own opinions and to ask my own questions, and yes, these will consist of the ones that I am about to put forward to you. Murder is an ugly business. Four murders are grotesque enough. Would you rather that you obstruct me now and make it five before the week is out?”

Morris Featherbank coughed and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He feigned a fascination with his shirt cuffs. He looked up and around the room before settling his eyes back on to Holmes.

“I should not like there to be five,” said he, quietly.

“I am very glad about that,” Holmes replied. “Will you answer my questions?”

Featherbank nodded mutely.

“That is better. Thank you. Now, could you tell me a little about the telegraph offices here in Camden Town? You oversee them all, but this one in particular, is that correct?”

“That is correct, yes. This is the central office, and there are three other, quite smaller ones that are contained by the post office. I have been manager here for five years, and nothing – no, nothing, Mr. Holmes – of the like has happened here before. It is outrageous. My clerks are unhappy and my delivery boys are frightened out of their wits. I am finding it difficult to retain staff at the moment.”

“What did you know of the boys who were killed, Mr. Featherbank?”

The gentleman shook his head. His moustache appeared almost to ripple. I stared at it, enthralled.

“Why should I be expected to know anything?” he demanded. “They were boys. They came in, they collected the telegrams, they went out to deliver them. I did _not_ care to spend my day in idle chit-chat with them, Mr. Holmes. They performed their duties adequately. I had no reason to be displeased with their work. There, did I answer your question?”

“Very barely,” said Holmes, running his hand over his face. “Were they acquainted? How did they react to the news? Did you or anyone notice any unusual behaviour?”

“They worked from different offices,” replied Mr. Featherbank, “so I do not imagine so. They reacted as you might expect: in shock and fear. And I suppose that if I were a lad in a similar plight, I might behave more unusually than, well, than usual.”

The interview continued in this fruitless vein for some further minutes. At length, my friend rose from his chair.

“Thank you,” said he, “I believe that I have all I need from you here. One last question, Mr. Featherbank. At the beginning of our dialogue, you mentioned _three_ Scotland Yard Inspectors. Gregson, and then the French-sounding fellow – Inspector Lestrade, yes? Hm hm, I thought so. But, who was the third?”

“The third?” said Mr. Featherbank, screwing up his face in concentration. “Why, he was the very rudest of the lot. He told me his name, yes, he did.” The manager nodded in recollection. “He said that his name was Watson: Inspector John Watson of Scotland Yard.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I confess that my brain was caught up in a fury those next minutes, and I can recall little of what was said, or how I reacted other than with an apoplectic splutter. After conversing a minute with several of the clerks out in the circle, Holmes led me back onto the street, and we stood, looking first around then at each other.

“I cannot believe it,” I said, the calmer now. “The nerve of it. The blazing nerve.”

My friend hummed softly.

“This affair grows ever more complex,” said he. “At least that fool Featherbank was able to provide a short description of our imposter – although it was fairly nondescript. Were you listening? No? Well, they were a short and stocky fellow with a bulbous nose, and middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed moustache, otherwise shaven, and smartly dressed in a navy-blue Ulster. One of the clerks with whom I spoke was able to confirm it. Are you quite certain it wasn't you, John?”

I huffed in indignation. “No, it was _not_. And I see absolutely nothing to make a joke about. And I am not stocky. And I do not have a bulbous nose,” I added, irritably.

I set off down the street for the main road. My friend caught up and took my arm.

“I apologise,” said he. “That was insensitive, when this has clearly put you out of sorts. I'll admit that I find the whole thing frankly intriguing, all the same. The gauntlet has been thrown down. And this took place before Lestrade came to see us, do you realise that? Ha!” He clapped my shoulder. “Don't brood about it, let us carry on. A visit to the families now, I think.”

“I should prefer a small respite,” I said. “We have been at it all the morning.”

We joined the lunchtime crowd at The Silver Acorn. With two half-pints of Parson's Ale, we claimed a small table by the fire and set in to observe the merry throng. If the streets surrounding the Acorn were less than wholesome, then the little public house did itself proud by raising itself above the mediocrity. For it was spotlessly clean and swept, with cosy nooks and discreet snugs, and with the most excellent row of spirits for discerning palates above the bar. Be-suited gentlemen holding cheery midday meetings here, toasting to prosperity chased or already gained.

“I suppose you want a sandwich,” said Holmes.

“Do you know,” I replied, turning round on my stool to look him straight in the eye, “you are going to be extremely sorry that you said that, later on.” I said this with a twinkle. (A half-pint of Parson's will go a fair way to restoring the good humour of a man.)

Holmes arched an eyebrow. “I cannot wait.” Then: “I am going to speak with the landlord; I shall be just a minute.” He lurched off in the direction of the bar. I watched him lean casually against the counter, heard him adopt a chipper, friendly bluster with the owner, who responded likewise. My friend the chameleon: able to speak with every class of gentleman or lady; to achieve an instant confidence. He returned to me with a quizzical smile upon his face.

“What happened? What did the fellow say?” I enquired.

“By Jove, we are fortunate today, John,” said he. “A good call on your part for selecting this place. It turns out that one of the lads was a semi-regular here, up to his demise. Our friend the landlord tells me that the evening prior to the boy's misfortune, he was found drinking here with a small group of his chums. They were standing there at the bar, and the landlord overheard their talk. Very serious, too, they were, with their heads inclined within a circle as if not desiring an intrusion. Our lad, in particular, kept repeating the one phrase over and over: _'the leaf'_.”

I frowned. “A leaf? What the devil could that mean? A leaf from a tree? A leaf of paper? What do you think, Holmes?” I stopped. “Is the landlord quite certain he heard it correctly?”

“He heard it repeated many times, although I suppose it possible that he misheard. _Belief_ , or _Believe_ , perhaps? Believe in what? We must certainly pursue this line of enquiry with the boy's family.”

I was feeling the more comfortable now, and warm, and lulled by the hum of surrounding converse. I could quite happily have rested here all the afternoon, my friend by my side. We rarely socialised in this manner, but I found I enjoyed it very much. As we finished off our ale, I fell into a friendly chatter with an old man upon the bench adjacent. His wry humour kept me amused as we crossed disparate topics: the health benefits of roller-skating; do grains in wholemeal bread _really_ help clean the teeth?; the overall tremulous mental state of our present Prime Minister. Then I felt Holmes patting at my leg, that I ought realise the time, and I bid my farewells to my new friend.

“What on earth was that you were droning on about grains?” my friend enquired, outside in the damp and the cold. “They help you to roller-skate?”

“You really weren't paying attention, were you,” I said.

“Disjecta membra,” replied he, enigmatically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grieving families are somewhat akin to cantankerous district managers: they are both exhausted of official visits and unwelcome questions. We were invited inside each house, regardless, and shown a touching hospitality as they dealt with my friend's enquiries.

_“Our Ronnie was a cheeky boy, but he weren't a badun', Mr. Holmes...”_

_“Edward was about to be promoted, we were so proud...”_

_“A leaf? A leaf of what? Don' know what that's about, or why my Larry should be in a public house a-drinkin' like you say...”_

_“Milton left home two years ago, Mr. Holmes, and we din't see so much of him after that, what with 'is gamblin' an' all...”_

“Holmes, that was exhausting,” I said, as we left the last of the four houses, the light already dipping in the sky above. “What have we learned from all of this?”

“Let us go home,” said he – to my relief – “and I shall think on it awhile.”

Then it was, as we were climbing the staircase up towards our sitting-room, that I recollected young Billy's plight. It was late – far too late – to do anything now, having been out the whole day, now famished and footsore. _The first thing in the morning, before he calls around to see us_ , I told myself firmly. We should not disappoint him.

A bath freshened us both up wonderfully, and we sat close by the fire in dressing gowns and slippers, pipes charged full with strong tobacco. We were grateful for hot coffee, and drank it curled against the other, eyes drooping closed.

“We must not fall asleep,” said Holmes. “I have important research.” He yawned cavernously.

I pressed my lips against the only bare patch of his skin that I could find: his right wrist. The rest of him was bundled up in flannel. I nibbled my way up his goose-bumping arm, huffing short, hot breaths along it. I heard his soft chuckle. His gown was inched slightly awry and to one side; his own doing. I latched on to his neck, and tongued it avidly. He groaned. I slid my hand between the cloth folds; yanked up his shirt to come to rest against his stomach. I roved lightly over the hairs of him, enjoyed his coquettish flinches from the tickling rasp.

“I am taking you tonight,” I whispered.

He sought my mouth and kissed me deeply.

“I am always yours to take,” said he.

“You belong to me,” I teased him.

“Yes.”

His response moved me intensely. We may have tussled on the sofa, him beneath me, for a few minutes, as my self-control flew who knew where. If I could have taken him then, then I would have; should have. His face was flushed crimson and his hair was mussed crooked by the end of it. He sat up, rearranged his gown, smoothed down the black shock.

“John, I have to--”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Which volume?”

“That one, to your left. No, not that one, the next to it.”

I reached up to his bookshelf and pulled out the thick tome, and he set to his reading while I fed fresh coals to the fire.


	4. Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

I awoke the next morning with the room shrouded in shadows, at eight o'clock. Recalling the night before, the athletic endeavours with my friend, I smiled and stretched, rolled across to his side of the bed to nestle and kiss again. I found the space empty. Of course; and I should have known it. I pulled on my warmest dressing-gown and slippers and shivering, made my way downstairs. The fire was already lit – I cheered immensely at seeing this – and the table set for breakfast. I espied Holmes sitting cross-legged upon the hearth-rug, a jumble of mismatched volumes cast about him, his nose buried in a brown leather-bound.

“Good morning,” I said. “You are at it already. And making a mess.”

I stepped across to his makeshift nest. He raised his head and craned his neck to kiss a greeting.

“This is frustrating,” he replied. “I cannot find what I am looking for.”

“What are you looking for?”

“That is the problem. I shall know only when I find it.”

I shook my head. “The best of luck with that, then.”

I returned to our room to wash and dress. Mrs. Hudson, that magical woman, seemed always to predict us, for by the time that I descended once again, the covered dishes of eggs and ham and toast were placed. I poured two cups of coffee and took one across to Holmes, still lost in reading.

“No, I shall join you at the table,” he said. “Today, John, I am going to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine.”

I blinked at my friend.

“And who might that be?” I enquired. Holmes's _'old acquaintances'_ seemed to be popping up out of the woodwork with fair regularity these past months. “I had no idea that you had so many friends squirrelled away,” I added, smiling.

Holmes tutted.

“Langdale Pike is an _acquaintance_ , not a friend,” said he with a sniff. “I do not suppose that you have heard of him. He is a gossip-monger for a large number of tawdry magazines and news sheets.”

“Oh. The garbage papers.”

“Well, yes. All the same, he knows of every scandal, every piece of juicy gossip in the city, before most other men. And lord knows how he finds it, for he spends most of his time in the bow window of a St. James's Street club.”

“He does not sound a particularly decent fellow,” I retorted. “No wonder that you have not brought his name up before. Is he in your confidence?”

“What? No, of course not.” Holmes speared a knob of butter on his knife and jabbed at his square of toast. “Do you take me for a fool, John? My point is, that Langdale Pike is party to a great wealth of useful data, and he might have just what we need. I return the favour on the odd occasion. Oh, don't look so dubious about it.”

I spooned myself a second helping of ham and egg.

“Then you are of the opinion that this mystery has its basis in some scandal?” 

My friend flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It is only conjecture, and if not the case, then it should be eliminated from our enquiry as soon as possible. We had best leave straight after breakfast, that we might be first to catch the fellow.” He looked at me. “I hope you are not still anxious after yesterday's surprise at the telegraph office. It is curious, but not threatening as I see it.”

“I should like to see them try anything with me,” I said, my temper flaring up. “They would be looking down the barrel of my revolver in three seconds flat.”

Holmes chuckled.

“That is one of the things that I love about you, John,” said he. “Your inclination is always to do something energetic and heroic.”

It did not take us very long to finish breakfast, whereupon I insisted that my friend clear up the literary muddle upon the carpet, lest our landlady – or one of us – should unwittingly break our neck. That mission accomplished, not without a fraction of pique – _“But I had everything laid just how I wanted it!”_ – we left 221B to stroll down the street already alive with the rattle of hansoms, the loose rumble of the traders' carts. Inclement weather encouraged us to hail a two-wheeler, and so within minutes we were speeding down towards St. James's. The club itself – a nondescript, shabby three-storey – was unfamiliar, although not to my friend as, after speaking with the front desk clerk, he led me along corridors and through a series of rooms to bring us out into a dusty, rectangular space, filled with sofas and tables and bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Lounged upon a window seat at the far side was, I presumed, the aforementioned and disreputable Mr. Pike. The gentleman shifted upon his perch as we entered in, and eyed us languidly. His expression turned to one of delight, then, and up he sprang. What a strange creature he seemed at first glance: long-faced and lithe of body, his brown crown of hair was luxurious and unfettered; his dress was quaintly styled and high-collared and some fifty years out of date. His eyes were small and scrutinous, whereas his mouth seemed excessively large for his face; it struggled to fit when he spoke, as he did now:

“Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed he, in an odd, sibilant tone. “My very stars! It is a joyous day indeed that allows me to see you. It has been months! _Months_ upon months. An eternity. What have you been up to? Quite apart from saving the world, that is.” 

“I think that saving the world is quite sufficient for any man,” my friend replied cheerfully. “How have you been, Pike?”

“Oh, I cannot complain,” said the fellow. “The city hitches her skirts and I reap the rewards.” He looked at me. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing? Dr. Watson, I presume?”

We shook hands and were officially introduced. Beckoning us over to his bow window, Langdale Pike took centre stage and assembled us around him as worshippers. He smiled benevolently.

“Always a pleasure,” said he. “Would you care for some green tea?”

“A little information would be preferable,” said my friend. “I suppose that you have heard something of the telegraph murders?”

“This and that,” replied Pike. His smile widened. “It is starting to become quite _thrilling_ , don't you agree?”

The fellow was despicable.

“I am engaged upon the case,” said Holmes. “I shall be thrilled only when it is solved. Tell me what you know.”

Langdale Pike unfurled himself from his cushions and leaned forward to the low table set before him. He picked up an ornate flowered teapot in his manicured right hand, and poured a light stream of green into a delicate china cup. He brought the tea-cup to his lips and sipped thoughtfully.

“Little ruffians,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Who?”

The fellow smiled again, around his tea-cup.

“Sometimes you'll find that young boys grow up and into little ruffians. Mr. Holmes, don't glare at me, it is not becoming of you. I am telling you what I know, which at present is scarcely a speckle.”

“Very well, then,” said Holmes. “Does the phrase _'the leaf'_ suggest anything to you?”

“Mmmm,” said the knave. “It just might.”

“A narcotic!” I blurted, unable to stop myself. The two turned towards me. “Sorry,” I added. 

Pike put down his cup.

“You have been reading too many detective stories, Dr. Watson,” said he, patronisingly. 

I disliked him all the more now.

Pike drew out his notebook from his waistcoat pocket, and with a stubby pencil scribbled a few lines upon a sheet of it. He tore it from its binding and passed it across to Sherlock Holmes. My friend read it. His expression changed.

“Thank you, Pike,” said he.

“Someone you know, knows it very well,” sang Langdale Pike, in an infuriating tone. He put index finger and thumb to his lips and twisted, as if he should never tell.

“I can see that this meeting is over,” said Holmes. “You have been very helpful, all the same. Have a good day, Pike, and thank you again. Come, Watson.”

Outside in the hall, my friend brushed against me, curled an arm briefly around my waist.

“And that is why he is an acquaintance, rather than a friend,” he said softly. “But when one plays in the lion pit, one must occasionally deal with the beast.” He paused. “I am aware that is a terrible analogy.”

“Odious man,” I said. “What was in that note? And who knows _what_ very well?”

Holmes shook his head slowly, his lips pressed together. 

“All of that must be later,” said he. “We can do nothing for the moment.”

“You tell me nothing,” I complained. “It is a miracle that I endure as your biographer.”

A weak and sickly sun had struggled out from betwixt the clouds as we re-emerged onto the street. I decided that we should detour to the solace of Bradley's, and so we gambled on the elements and buttoned up for the walk. We were approximately halfway before my memory awoke.

“Holmes! Good gracious! We forgot about Billy.”

“ _You_ forgot about Billy,” my friend replied. “What have you done about it?”

“Well, I have not had any opportunity,” I said, irritably. “That is my point entirely. And I told him to visit us this morning. And he likely will have come, and we were not there. And he doesn't want to be snuffed out.” I hit my forehead.

“He doesn't want to be _what?_ John, the boy is not a guttering candle. You are not responsible for the city's every urchin. He has parents of his own.” A pause. “You know what I mean.” A further pause. “I feel as if I am walking on eggshells.”

“Don't walk on them on my account,” I said. “I simply do not wish for any harm to befall the boy. And he is not a random urchin; he is one of your Irregulars. I am going to spend a fortune in Bradley's now,” I added, crossly.

Abandoning my customary ship's and Arcadia mixture, I purchased several pouches of expensive American imports: flavoured Plum & Rum and Black Cherry tobaccos. Holmes stood by my side and looked on in dismay.

“You are going to stink out the sitting-room,” he observed.

“No worse than one of your infernal chemical experiments,” I retorted. 

“If they are any worse than that Christmas Spice blend you insist upon smoking once a year, then I shall be staging a vociferous protest,” said he, with a fond squeeze to my shoulder.

_I don't suppose you would offer an apprenticeship to an eager youngster, Mr. Bradley?  
I'm sorry, Doctor, no, we have no openings at present._

It was a similar tale at the newsagent, the barber and the grocer.

Baker Street was quiet upon our return. I tapped at Mrs. Hudson's door, without answer. There were no messages pinned to or pushed beneath our door. There was, however, the morning post, which Holmes snatched up and commenced to thumb through. The room's warmth was blissful, and we shucked off our coats to draw close to the fire, while we waited for, well, the right time. Only my friend knew when that should be. For all I knew, we could be booked on a night boat to Cairo.

“I have received an answer to the telegram I despatched yesterday, while you were raging,” said Holmes. “Lestrade informs me that there is no Yard Inspector of the description we were given.” He smiled at my frown. “I had to check down that avenue, just to be certain. For you are surely not the only John Watson in the world, after all.”

He rose from his chair and moved across to his chemistry table. For a couple of hours he tinkled with bottles and tubes and a number of vapours and fizzes, the results of which he carefully made note. He placed himself at his writing desk and composed several letters; continued his work upon some long neglected monograph. I gazed the meanwhile at my Plum & Rum, barely resisting its siren call. I read the newspaper, tidied my journals and took a short nap.

“How much later _is_ later?” I asked Holmes, upon my awakening. 

“This evening,” said he. “Not too long to wait. And as Mrs. Hudson has not yet returned from her outing, we may as well dine on the way. No need to dress up, my dear fellow.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The area of Soho which we were now in was scattered in lamplight, largely in shadow. Scarcely a bustling pleasure spot, the small groups of people that we passed peered at us curiously.

“I think we should have dressed down even further,” I said to my friend. “Wherever are we going, Holmes?”

Watering holes in various states of neglect dotted our route, with the noise from the inside spilling out to the street; the smell of stale beer and bad perfume. A terrace of houses, and then a short road that seemed to lead to a dead end. Holmes walked with me to the end of it, where I saw we had arrived at a tall building, cast in darkness yet in considerably better repair than its neighbours a few yards away. Stone pillars at the portal stood as sentries, with heavy curtains barring the windows from prying eyes.

“We are here,” said my friend. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for anything,” I replied. “If only I might know for what. Is this a private residence?”

“No,” said Holmes. He pulled on an iron ring to the side of the main door. Somewhere in the bowels of the building we heard a bell ring. An interminable delay, and then a wood panel slid open. A pair of sharp eyes met our own.

“Yes?”

“Good evening,” Holmes said evenly. “We were recommended to you by Larry, a mutual friend. Might we come in?”

A bolt slid back, a key turned in the lock. The door creaked and swung open, and we were admitted entry. Away in a distant room, the sound of bottles, of chinking glasses, low conversation. The fellow who had opened the door for us nodded his head.

“Ten shillings, sir, please, and thank you.”

He raised up an arm and pointed the way through.

“Have a good night, gents,” said he.

“It is a drinking club,” I hissed to my friend, as we stepped down the narrow hallway. “And a damned expensive one. Could you not have explained to the man why we were here?”

“I far prefer to tickle with the feather than to hammer with the mallet,” said Holmes. “I apologise for my second abysmal analogy of the day.”

The main club-room appeared to be the result of several rooms knocked together. It was the width of the whole building, with a section split for dancing and the other side set for tables, chairs and elegant plush sofas. A winding wooden staircase led from the bar side up to the first floor. The lighting was amber, warm and intimate. A young gentleman sat with a Spanish guitar, picking out a curious melody. There were perhaps a dozen patrons, seated singly or in pairs, drinking whisky and liqueurs. I was able to discern a small number of ladies in exotic dress, speaking with smart young fellows and all seated at the bar.

I heard a soft snort from my friend. He took my elbow, led me across to one of the tables, where one gentleman sat alone nursing his drink.

“If you are paying, then we shall have a couple of whisky sodas,” said he to the fellow, who looked up at us in startlement.

“Good bloody lord. It's you two,” said the figure.


	5. Tomfools to the Left of Me, Dandy-Boys to the Right

“Good evening to you, Gregson.”

The Scotland Yard Inspector seemed much surprised to see us. His tumbler, raised the halfway to his lips, had frozen there in stasis as he blinked from my friend to me.

“But what the devil are you doing here?” he asked. “I mean...”

“We are delighted to see you too. That is a ridiculous fake moustache you are wearing.” Holmes pulled out a chair and we sat down at the table with our friend. “Are you present in an official capacity?”

Gregson put down his glass. He looked at us keenly.

“No,” said he. “Not in an official capacity.” He leaned back in his chair, patted his upper lip and let out a strange chuckle. “Well, whoever would have guessed.” He clicked his fingers at the bartender who came across to take our order. The snap attracted the attention of the ladies at the counter, for several heads turned our way to smile and nod. I rather hoped that they should not venture across. This seemed the strangest place for Gregson to while away his leisure hours.

“It has been a little while since we last saw you, Gregson,” I said. “I trust you have been well?”

The Inspector sighed.

“Aye, all's fair.” He grimaced, then. “Ah, but why should I speak a mistruth to you of all men. No, it has all gone to hell. That is why I am sitting here in this dark dump with my drink, with all of these tomfools standing around me listening to some daft dandy-boy twanging on a half-strung toy guitar.” He took a swallow of his whisky. “All gone to buggery hell,” he repeated.

“How many of those have you had?” I frowned at him. “Where is Victor?”

Gregson smacked his hand on the table.

“Not here, is he. No. That's the last I've seen of him. Over a month now. A grand fight over something I don't want to gab about, not now or ever. A damned shame, too. A fantastic cock on him,” added the Inspector as a mournful coda.

“Gregson,” said Holmes, “you are quite clearly paralytic, but before you sink beneath the table and disgorge on the carpet, might you perhaps explain to us a little of what this club is all about?”

I leaned forward to touch Gregson lightly upon the arm. My small way of comfort, for heartache is a roiling misery. The Inspector smiled, his eyes downcast. Then he looked at my friend in amused mystification.

“Mr. Holmes, surely you know, otherwise why are you here?”

“I know that it is a drinking club with something of a reputation,” replied Holmes. “But I could not for the life of me recall the name of the place until earlier today. _The Fig Leaf_. Better known as _'The Leaf'_. A charming moniker. Gregson, I am investigating the telegraph murders. I thought that must surely be the reason for your visit also.”

Gregson started in his chair and leaned forward on his elbows, now quite sober.

“Why should you hope to find anything here?” he whispered. “Hush now, hush now. Sound carries in this place. It is true, I am on the telegraph case, but I am on my evening off. What is that you say – a trail has led you here?” 

The poor Inspector appeared bewildered. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it of its fug, then leaned in once again.

“I am not proud to tell you that a lot more goes on here than you might at first suspect,” said he. “I thought you were here for the same reason as I. That surprised me, Mr. Holmes. I can see now that is not the case. Well, then, yes, _The Leaf_ is a drinking club. But it is more than that. It offers... companionship. If you understand my meaning.”

“I begin to,” said Holmes. He glanced around him at the bar, as I did also, to the ladies in their finery, their silk and lace and filigree.

“Gregson,” I said, feeling very confused, “you would seek the companionship of these women?”

He laughed; it shook his shoulders and brought on a fit of coughing.

“Bless you, Doctor, no. There are no women here.”

“But--”

“You should not judge anything by its outward appearance,” said the Inspector. “Oh, you are looking at me like that, now, are you. You are a fine one. I suppose that you never did anything of the like before you met Mr. Holmes. For mercy's sake, now you're _both_ giving me the evil eye. Ha ha! I know the risk of it. I'm not green. For that is part of the fun of it, the danger. So, we pay this exorbitant price to get in, order a drink and get to chatting, and take our choices from the 'girls' or from the lads, and then we head on up the stairs for a nice time of it. But, Mr. Holmes, you have to tell me, how do the telegraph murders fit into all of this?”

Holmes looked thoughtfully into his whisky soda.

“I have information that the victims may have worked here at one time or another.”

Inspector Gregson's jaw dropped.

“For the love of Pete, don't tell me that. When? Do you mean to say that--”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “it is quite possible, if you have frequented the place for a month. Gregson, you are likely to prove invaluable.”

The Inspector shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Aye, that's as maybe, but Mr. Holmes, I really don't fancy telling you any of what goes on with me. That's private, you understand. But I'll tell you what I know of the lads I've met here. They change their names for their work, of course. In here, it's all _Peachy_ and _Xander_ and _Tom-Tom_. Yes, well, exactly...”

Gregson began to speak, then, of the machinations of the club or the very little that he knew of them. We learned that a lad could make a pretty penny from such a line, but that they tended not to stay at one place for very long, perhaps tiring of the clientèle, the conditions or their conscience. It was not seen as peculiar if a boy worked for a week or two and then disappeared. It was accepted that he had 'had enough', moved on, or given up the 'jig' entirely. There was always an eager fellow to step up and take his place. The prettier ones might consent to wear a gown, affect their mannerisms, to play the part. The _Leaf's_ customers all had their different tastes and desires, after all. Times were hard; the pay justifying.

“I feel so terribly sorry for these young lads,” I said, feeling very deflated. “What a life.”

“They enjoy it, for the most part,” replied Gregson. “At the very least, they tolerate it. It is not something they are forced into, I tell you. Not here, anyway. If they get fed up, they leave. The ones who are lucky to find regular customers, who they like and don't find repellent, then 'tis a good life for them until they work out what they want from life, besides being flat on their back five nights a week.”

“And what of the clientèle, Gregson?” my friend enquired. “You are far more observant than the average fellow. Tell us what you have seen and heard from these tables.”

The Inspector puffed up at the compliment.

“That is extremely kind of you to say so, Mr. Holmes. Well, there is a right mixture here, as you might imagine, although the same faces do crop up. The _Leaf_ has its share of regulars. But who's to say what is considered odd behaviour in a place like this? Some gentlemen find themselves out of their depth, might say or do the wrong thing, and yet they mean no harm by their bluster. There is one dapper fellow – a writer, or some such – who holds court at the far table over there. He is never short of something kind and witty to say to these young lads, and he often sits down here in the bar just for the conversation. Aye, Oscar is a decent sort. Then there are the quiet lot, who sit alone and never speak a word to anyone, except to select a lad and go on upstairs. And then there is--” And here, Gregson stopped short, sneered his lip. “Then there is Barnabas and his crowd. The less I have to do with them, the better.”

“Barnabas?”

“Aye. Never mind him. He is the boss of my Victor, and like I said, that's all in the past and I don't want to keep being _reminded_ by seeing the ugly faces of those who are still associated with him. Personal business, Mr. Holmes, let's keep that out of it, shall we.”

The Inspector set his jaw, picked up his drink and cradled it.

“And their behaviour is out of sorts when they are here?” Holmes enquired, lighting a cigarette.

“They are hoity toity, and none too polite, but that's as far as it goes. I steer clear of 'em, don't listen to their drivel. Never liked Hedgings, never will, and bloody Amen to that. And that's as much as I know about anything. It's a damned shame. Here, Mr. Holmes, it's not that I don't like your company, but are you going to be here all night?”

“I quite understand,” said my friend. “You are here for the conversation, and we are detaining you.” Holmes rose from his chair. “I must just speak a minute with the fellows at the bar.” He headed off in their direction.

Gregson turned to me.

“It has been a while,” said he.

“Yes,” I said, unsure exactly of a while since what. “I am sorry that things did not work out with Victor.”

“It is hurting me, Doctor, I cannot deny it,” replied the Inspector. “But the cards cut as they will.”

“Do you really not wish to talk about it?”

Gregson shook his head. “No, I cannot say that I do.” He smiled at me. “Is my moustache really so ridiculous?”

I chuckled. “The tips do curl up a little. Wherever did you get it from? You should have talked with Holmes. He has a whole boxful of the things; you could have borrowed one from him.”

Gregson burst into laughter. “Oh aye, I can just imagine how _that_ would go. 'Please, Mr. Holmes, could I impose upon your goodness to lend me one of your lovely moustaches, so's I can go out gallivantin' without anybody recognisin' me?' Ha ha!” The Inspector drained his whisky glass. “Doctor, you'd best be leaving soon. I'm three parts to the wind and already standing at half-mast.” He guffawed again at my dismay. “Ah, 'tis a joke, and only that, but all the same. I paid a nice chunk of my earnings to get in here. And now Mr. Holmes has me all rattled up about those poor lads who he thinks might have worked here. Well, I shall keep my eyes and ears open from now on. I am on good terms with Gideon. He is the fellow that runs this place.”

“That would be excellent, if you could,” I said. “And please do be careful, about, well, everything.” I shook my head. We sat without speaking further and listened to the guitar music. I smoked a cigar, finished my drink, and by then my friend had returned.

“Come on, John,” said he, “let's be off.” 

We shook hands with Inspector Gregson, bade our farewells and made for the door.

“Did you learn anything of interest?” I asked, when we were back out on the street. The sky was now as pitch. The air was bitter cold. I shivered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I believe so. Such charming boys. They were eager to talk. One of them propositioned me.” He chuckled.

“Did he now?” I scowled. “Impudent youth. Well, never mind him. And I suppose that you are not going to tell me what you have found out? No, I thought not. So. What do you think about Gregson?”

Holmes took my arm and we wended our way homewards.

“I think he is unhappy and taking comfort where he might find it,” said he. “Do not judge him for that, John. And my goodness, you are not responsible for _his_ happiness or well-being, either. I swear that you would take care of London in its entirety, if you were able.”

“I cannot help that.”

“Hmm. When really, what is _far more_ important, is for you to take care of _me_. Tonight.” 

My friend hummed a soft tune beneath his breath. I turned my head to look at him, delighted.

“I accept full responsibility,” I said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside our bedroom, Holmes loosened his tie, sat down upon the bed. He leaned back, propped himself up on two elbows, looked up at me with a mischievous wink.

“Whisky makes you frisky,” I said, unbuttoning my waistcoat.

“And brandy makes you randy,” he replied. “Yes, I know. Hurry up, John.”

“Buttons,” I explained. I shucked the waistcoat off at last. The shirt was simpler. My trousers ended up slung across a chair-back. When I turned around, Holmes was undressed and laying back against the pillows.

“Do you have any idea quite how gorgeous you are,” I said. I climbed up onto the bed and straddled him. I leaned forward, up and over, and kissed him. I could quite happily have spent the whole rest of my life just kissing that beautiful mouth. His hands moved around me to stroke at my back. We broke apart from the kiss to take breath.

“I adore your back,” said he, kneading the muscle.

“I adore your neck,” I replied, and set my lips to it as proof.

“Your backside.” He smacked and squeezed.

“Your prick.” I wrapped my fingers around it, lightly smoothed them up and down the shaft.

We both began to laugh at how ridiculous we must sound.

“The feel of you inside me,” said he, lightly tugging at my hair.

“You like that.”

“I do.”

“How much do you like it?”

“Very much.”

I leaned across to the bedside cabinet, opened the drawer, removed a small jar. I unscrewed the lid. I dipped a couple of fingers inside, scooped out a little of the content and rubbed my fingers to warm it through. Holmes reached up to pull me down to him, to kiss me, tongues to combat. He spread his legs. I reached down to apply the cream. I wended a trail of kisses down his chest. He caressed every inch of me that he might reach, moaning softly as my fingers did their busywork. At length I handed him the jar, and he too dipped in his fingers, and drew them out to cast benediction upon my prick.

“I think that should do it,” said he with a smile. He lay back again, raised his legs slightly. “John.”

The feel of being inside him. It is the intensest pleasure. And moving inside him; hearing his whimpers transform into groans as I pummel him. And pummel him I do, for to hold myself back from a fraction of this would be tantamount to impossible, with the sounds that he is making and the way his body moves against me.

His head thrown back and to one side to expose that deliciously long, pale neck. I would bite it, if I could reach it. (I cannot reach it, not at this moment, for I am inside him, and he is gripping me and keening, and there isn't any time.)

We come. It is long, loud and blissful. I slump over him; he clasps me to his chest. _I love you. I love you too._

I bite his neck.


	6. "Extra!  Extra!  Read All About It!"

“John,” said Sherlock Holmes, the following morning, “you were paying attention, I hope, to what friend Gregson was speaking of last evening?”

It was early still; too early to get dressed, descend to breakfast. We were lounging between the sheets, quiet and intimate a while before the bustle of the day.

I caressed a thumb across his shoulder.

“I was listening, yes, of course. Why?”

“Listening and paying attention are two different things entirely. For instance, do you recall the name of the fellow that our Inspector was loath to discuss?”

I frowned. “Um, yes, I think so. Oscar, wasn't it? No, wait. Barnabas.”

“Well done. How about the gentleman's surname?”

“Gregson did not mention it.”

“Then you were not paying attention. Barnabas Hedgings.”

“Oh. Is that significant?”

“Significant in that he is Victor's employer, according to Gregson.” Holmes twisted over onto his side and propped his head upon one hand. “Let me recap for you, John; it will help me to set things straight. Two months ago, a young man is murdered, strangled to death inside an empty house. He is the first of four victims, at different locations, over a moderate period of time. According to Pike, at least two of the boys had been employed not only at one of the Camden Town telegraph offices, but, quite possibly at the time of their demise, also _The Fig Leaf_. A mysterious gentleman is reported to have been making case enquiries at the main telegraph hub, and when pressed declares that his name is Inspector John Watson of Scotland Yard. There is no Inspector of that name or physical description at the Yard. We find out that Inspector Gregson has become a regular at the _Leaf_ , that his relationship has ended unhappily, and that his ex-lover's employer now frequents the club. This leads me to wonder if that fact has any bearing upon the difficulties within Gregson and Victor's understanding. Significant also, perhaps, if one is aware of Hedgings' line of work.”

I stubbed my cigarette into the silver monkey ashtray, and rolled the closer to my friend.

“You are being very cryptic about Hedgings,” I said. “I have never heard of the fellow. But he is surely not a charlatan if young Victor is in his employ?”

“Did I say anything at all about the gentleman being a charlatan?” Holmes dealt a soft nudge to my ribs. “He is the editor of _The Portent_.” A pause. “Oh John, don't look so blank. It is one of the smaller daily papers; fairly reputable all the same.”

I turned over the facts in my mind. “I see,” I said slowly. “So, you think that this Hedgings may have worked out the connection between the boys and the _Leaf_ and is angling to write an exclusive story for his paper?” A thought then struck me. “My goodness! Do you suspect _Hedgings_ as the strange fellow at the telegraph office?”

“It is a possibility,” said Holmes, swinging himself out from the bed. “Although one should never underestimate the power of disguise. I intend to uncover the truth. We cannot yet eliminate dear Mr. Featherbank from our enquiry, nor the club owner himself; this Gideon fellow. Not to mention the faceless, nameless clientèle to which Gregson alludes. I have learned something of friend Pike from those lads at the _Leaf_. Hum. But none of this can be until _after_ I have had my morning pipe and at least three cups of coffee. Up, John, up, get dressed now.”

The breakfast table was set, but curiously so: the cutlery disordered, the sugar bowl missing. My friend made a great show of pique, calling down twice to our landlady without receiving a response. The meal itself of eggs and bacon was heaped and delicious, and so we made do and sat down at the table.

“I strongly object to bitter coffee,” said Holmes. “Whatever is wrong with the woman.”

I spotted a number of scattered coals upon the hearth-rug. Mindful of my friend's unpredictable humour, I collected them discreetly and returned them to the scuttle. What on earth might have provoked Mrs. Hudson's distraction, that she had allowed her high standards to slip. The morning post, at least, was stacked neatly to one side. Holmes picked up the top envelope and slit it open with the butter-knife. He chuckled as he scanned the contents.

“What is so amusing?”

“Why, it is a letter from brother Mycroft,” said he. Holding aloft the single sheet, he read in best imitation of his sibling: _“...For god's sake take pity on me, Sherlock, and come to visit this weekend for Sunday lunch. Bring John. Nettie has me making thaumatropes. They are very complicated. Sophronia's mother remains here still; today she ordered Cook to lock away the biscuit barrel. This is intolerable...”_ My friend broke from his reading to join me in laughter. “Oh, John, this is too funny. He carries on like this for three whole paragraphs. What do you say – shall we take Sunday lunch with him?”

“I should love to,” I said. “I cannot wait to see how little Jeremiah is coming along.”

“As all infants do, I imagine,” said Holmes, now much cheered. “Poor Mycroft. I shall write a few lines in reply.”

He stood up from the table and crossed to his desk, proceeding to pen a short letter. I gazed out of the window at the familiar view and sipped my coffee, grimacing. The weather this morning was especially foul; with high winds and sleet and an overcast sky. I did not relish the prospect of traipsing through the London byways, bedraggled, wet and colder by the second.

Holmes must have noted my expression; he was standing now beside me and placed a hand upon my shoulder.

“You can stay here if you prefer, John,” said he kindly. “There will be little enough to do where I am going. I shall not be very long.”

“Where are you going?”

“Why, to the offices of _The Portent_ , to begin with. And then we shall see where the wind wishes to take me. Think of my suffering, while you are sitting warm and comfortable here at home. Do please have a word with Mrs. Hudson about the sugar bowl.”

He pulled on his greatcoat and picked up his umbrella and hat. He stooped down to kiss me, and then he was gone. From the downstairs hall I heard a door open, a voice calling: “Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!” – but a second too late, I fear, for I saw my friend, oblivious, striding out towards a hansom. I hurried to the landing. Mrs. Hudson's foot was already on the stair.

“Doctor!” said she. “Go on back in with you now, I shall be there in a second. I have something of import to tell you.” 

I heard a muffled whisper from the hallway in conferral.

Puzzled, I stood and waited. A moment later, the lady appeared, a hesitant smile upon her face.

“Doctor,” said she again, “I hope that breakfast was satisfactory?”

An opportunity to voice our concerns, with Mrs. Hudson listening carefully and nodding.

“I do apologise,” said she at the end of it, “it is all part of the learning process.” She turned around to the landing. “Billy, come on in, my dear.”

A shadow, and then the figure of young Billy himself. I stared at him, amazed. For the lad was now in uniform, smart trousers, a buttoned jacket (if a little large and heavy), and polished boots.

“I have taken Billy on as our page,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I hope that this meets with your approval, Dr. Watson. You were, after all, anxious that he should find a safe position. And I could so do with the help. You are already proving invaluable to me, aren't you, Billy? A little practice will make perfect.”

“I promise to make good, Dr. Watson,” said the lad. “I shan't disappoint you and Mr. 'Olmes. Mr. _Holmes_ ,” he amended quickly, smiling up bashfully at our landlady. “I do hapologise.”

I chuckled and shook my head in marvel. What a kind, remarkable woman was Mrs. Hudson.

“Welcome to Baker Street, Billy,” I said. “I trust you will be happy here. What are your hours of work, my boy?”

“From eight through to six, Sir,” he replied eagerly. “I'm already learnin' to build fires, and clean windows without smears. And then, when I'm ready, Mrs. Hudson says that I can start hanswerin' the door!” He beamed at us both. “I won't let anyone dodgy through, Dr. Watson.”

I ruffed the boy's hair. “I am quite sure that you won't. Mr. Holmes will be pleased to know that you plan on taking such good care.” I smiled at our landlady. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you so very much indeed.”

She patted my arm. “Think nothing of it, Doctor. My load is already the lighter. Now, my goodness, your sugar bowl.” 

She bustled away, drawing the young Billy with her. Still touched and amused by the turn that the morning had taken, I sat down by the fire and picked up my pipe. Plum & Rum or Black Cherry? I could not decide. I closed my eyes and reached out for a pouch as pot-luck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes returned before midday, stamping the rain and mud along the hallway and, after a pause of a minute or two, during which I supposed he was scraping it free of his boots, he leapt up the stairs and into our sitting-room, shaking his umbrella as a rattle.

“John!” he exclaimed, “It is filthy out there. I am saturated.”

“And now too is our carpet,” I replied wryly. “Do you have to do that in here?”

“Do what?” He charged across to the fire and stood, holding out his hands to thaw them from the frost. _"Brrr."_ He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Whatever is that appalling smell?”

“Black Cherry tobacco,” I said. “Holmes, I have to tell you something--”

“I am sure it can wait,” said he with a shiver. “Listen. I visited Hedgings' office. I spoke to Hedgings _and_ Victor – who, by the way, is just as miserable as Gregson. Both were shut as tight as clams, although I managed to prise a little out of the editor. I learned that Victor is responsible for the agony columns, and he also writes a weekly theatre editorial. He was surprised to see me there, and suspicious, too, I think, that I might have been despatched by Gregson. I soon put him right on that front.”

“Holmes--” I tried again.

“What _is_ it, John? Listen. Hedgings himself is a tall fellow, only a little beneath six feet. That rules him out therefore as our mystery gentleman, who was described as 'short' by two persons at Camden Telegraph. He was civil enough, if bumptious. I believe that goes with the territory of the Press. Well, I could hardly barge in with accusations of his having been seen at an illegal club, so I skirted around it and made enquiries as to his awareness of the telegraph murders.

“'I know precious little, Mr. Holmes,' said he. 'We have had some small information trickle through, but that is all. We cannot report what we do not have.'

“Now, that struck me as curious, John. 'Is the information being withheld?' I enquired. 

“He looked at me strangely, then, and was reluctant to reply, as if he wished to protect someone. 'I cannot rightly say,' said he.”

Holmes paused to pack his black clay pipe, and lit it, drawing thoughtfully.

“So now, who could be withholding information in that instance? Scotland Yard, of course. But for what reason? It is in the public's interest that they be kept abreast of current crime. Perhaps it is small wonder, then, that the Press employ their own methods. Frequenting a certain club, for example, John.”

I scratched my head and frowned.

“Might the Yard be withholding evidence for a reason, perhaps to avoid a false confession?” I suggested.

“Yes, one might accept specific details to be confidential, but almost _all_ of the information? The news is travelling faster by word of mouth from Camden Telegraph than it is from the printed press. I spoke to Victor, that he might have heard something of it from Gregson before their trouble. He says not; that Gregson never spoke to him of casework. My mention of Gregson distressed the lad, and he refused to speak further of it, except to allude that it was Gregson who had ended their relationship.”

“Gregson ended it? But--” 

“Yes, I know. This is becoming very complex. I really must find out the reason behind this upset. It does not look well for Gregson, I am afraid. Another speckle in the soup is that the young fellows at the _Leaf_ inform me that Langdale Pike is a known visitor at the club. How about that. He remains in the bar for the most part. I think perhaps he knows more than he tells. He spoke of _'little ruffians'_ , do you remember? Oh! The sugar bowl has returned.” 

“Mrs. Hudson brought it up,” I said. “It has something to do with what I was trying to tell you.” I took a deep breath. “Now, my love, please do not be angry, but Mrs. Hudson has taken it upon herself to--”

“I know what Mrs. Hudson has done,” said he, throwing himself down on the sofa and cuddling up to me. “I was waylaid in the hall. Well. She is a fine woman, and you are a good man, and _now_ we have an _infant terrible_ who has been put in charge of setting fire to our rooms and cracking all of our cups and our plates.” He kissed my chin. “Are you happy?”

I could not help but chuckle.

“I am happy,” I told him, returning his kiss.


	7. The Wheedle and the Damage Done

Inspector Gregson was considerably surprised to see us that same afternoon. Lounging behind the desk in his small back office at Scotland Yard, he straightened himself immediately, lifting his boots up and off the ink blotter as we entered the room to greet him.

“Here now,” said he, “what's all this, then? Mr. Holmes, I'd be obliged if you didn't shake that wet umbrella all over my paperwork.”

“Good afternoon, Gregson,” my friend replied evenly, drawing up two of the spare wooden-back chairs. “Your taste in décor is regrettable.”

The Inspector rolled his eyes.

“If you have come here only to make sarcastic remarks, then they might be better said elsewhere,” said he. He looked intently at Holmes. “Or have you found out something of importance on the telegraph murders?”

“Perhaps, yes. Something quite unusual, at any rate,” said Holmes. “Gregson, I would ask you to be straight with us.”

Gregson's eyes popped. He leaned forward and set his elbows hard upon the desk.

“Now, listen here, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “when have I ever told you anything that's other than the truth? In any event, it is not you who I answer to. Be straight with you about what?” the Inspector added, frowning.

“I have spoken with Victor,” said Holmes. He folded his arms; set his jaw. (A bluff, of course, I knew it; but should it work –)

The Inspector drew breath sharply. His eyes narrowed at my friend. He shot a quick glance to me; I assumed a neutral front.

“What for,” he said stubbornly. “That's none of your business. Spoken about what?”

The silence, a heavy atmosphere between us. It lasted for seconds only; it felt like minutes. Inspector Gregson, from rearing as a panicked cart-horse, began to crumble. His shoulders slumped, his exhaled breath was long and loud.

“What did the daft lad go and tell you for,” he muttered. “There's no harm done, no harm.”

“We should like to hear your side of it, Gregson,” said Holmes. He took out his cigarette case, flipped it open, offered it forward to the Inspector. Gregson accepted a cigarette, held it carefully between two fingers, examining it as if it were a foreign object. He snapped to, then, resolved, and in a quiet voice began to speak.

“My Victor came to me, why, it must have been two months ago. I could tell straightaway that something was wrong. For we were so close, see, that I could read every last one of his moods, and he mine. Beautiful lad. But what he asked of me, I could not understand it.

“'Tobias,' said he, 'I have a very great favour to ask of you.' 

“He knew full well I could refuse him naught. 

“'Anything, love,' I said to him. 'Whatever it is, you shall have it.'

“'You will think it rather strange,” said he, all coyness and fidget. 'But I have heard something of the horrible murder of that boy in Camden Town. He who worked at the telegraph office.'

“'Oh that,' I said, 'yes, horrible, but what of it? It happened just this day. We have yet to catch the fellow.'

“My Victor nodded, very serious. 'The favour I ask,' said he, 'is that the details are not spread out to the Press.'

“I stared at him a moment, and he gazed straight back, such an expression on his face. 

“'But why?' said I, 'Whatever can you mean?'

“'You know the job I do,' said he. 'It involves general reporting and editorial, alongside my column. Tobias, our paper is a struggling one, I have told you that before. We need a big story that no-one else has. A scoop. I... I could do this.' 

“He looked at me again, Mr. Holmes, but I could see no conviction in his face. I don't know what it was I saw. 'Tobias, I could do it. I could write a scoop, and make my name, and our newspaper should become well known. I could be promoted! Think of that, love. What does it matter, really, if the news is not released by Scotland Yard?'

“'Aye, lad, but a little of it has already been put out,' I said. I saw his face fall, despondent. I could not bear it. I thought of his dreams, his becoming a writer, successful. 'But why this case, in particular? You could surely find something other that you might write about? For it'd be difficult to conceal the truth, and harder to explain if it were found out.'

“'But you could do it?' His eager eyes on me, pleading. 

“Well, Mr. Holmes, we tossed the subject to and fro some more. I was not keen, believe you me. But he was my lad, and despite it being so odd I saw no reason for ulterior motive. The Press had a little detail. They could gnaw on that and mould it how they liked. The next day at the Yard, I covered my tracks and arranged it so that no other information should leave me. There now.”

Holmes nodded slowly, his eyes half closed, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Please continue, Gregson,” said he. “Believe me, it is vital you tell us all. Other lives may be at stake.”

The Inspector ran a fretful hand through his flaxen thatch of hair.

“Aye, Mr. Holmes, I understand that. I think I have been very foolish. So, it was easy enough at first, right up to the second murder, and then the third. And each time, Victor would come to me and ask me to hold back the information. I baulked and argued; it was no use. He swore that his editorial was coming along so well, it meant so much to him, and please, I should not doubt him. We at the Yard were doing all we could, the meanwhile, to catch the killer. It was laying heavy on my conscience, Mr. Holmes, I tell you that. Victor and I began to argue like we never had before. The more often I repeated that I felt I ought to release a little titbit to the Press, the more agitated he became. It was hellish, and in the end it drove us apart. I told him that we should finish it, not see each other for a while. He took it poorly. All the same, I kept my word as best I could, although a little may have slipped that I might ease my mind about it; enough for some of the editors to cobble up a few short paragraphs. But don't tell me that Victor has something to do with these murders, Mr. Holmes, because I don't think I could stand it.”

“Had Victor displayed an ambitious nature at any point prior to that?”

Gregson thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.

“He always wanted to be a writer. A poet. He'd go on about it, dreamin', you know, all dreams. How one day he'd write a big selling book, and so on. He's a talented boy, Mr. Holmes. And that's why I wanted to support him, help him any way I could. He's too good for that paper. He has a creative mind.”

“I don't doubt it,” said Holmes. “And yet the lad's 'scoop' has not appeared, to the best of our knowledge. No. Well. Has any case progress been made, since Lestrade came to see us?”

The Inspector shook his head.

“Our trail is cold, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “But we are still speaking with Camden Telegraph, and the families. What is the news from your side? Please ease my mind about Victor.”

I sat there in that tiny room, next to my friend while he ran through the facts he had repeated to me that morning.

“Mr. Holmes!” said Gregson, suddenly, “you pulled a bluff on me.” He thumped the desk with his fist. “Victor did not tell you anything. You scoundrel.”

“Perhaps not, but it released your tongue,” said Holmes. “Whatever were you thinking, man. You and your romantic notions.”

We left Scotland Yard a half-hour later, taking the time to calm our friend, and seeing to it that he should make no further contact with young Victor for the moment. Holmes was quiet as we stepped out to the street, to shelter beneath the broad umbrella that sparred with others passing by aloft, and to make our way. The jolting hansoms spattered mud across the pavements, and several times we had to dodge, our trouser legs the tempting target. After a decent interval I ventured the question that had been burning on my lips.

“Holmes, do you suspect Victor of wrongdoing in this case?”

I heard him sigh then lean the closer, as much to shield me from the rainstorm as to confide.

“Not of his own volition, John. It therefore begs the question, does it not, as to what he wishes to keep concealed? Who might he have come in contact with, these past four weeks? Is he unwittingly aiding Pike? He wishes to be a writer. Perhaps, then, he has formed an alliance with the fellow Oscar, of whom we know so little. This could be a small something, or rather more than that. We must speak again with Victor. Later, I think, at his lodgings, where he might be more inclined to speak. Gregson did once mention his address, and it is fortunate that my memory is excellent. Gregson. Dear me. This is what happens when love clouds common sense.”

Langdale Pike was not in the bow window of his St. James's Street club. In fact, he was not in the vicinity at all, which caused my friend to mutter oaths beneath his breath. The _Leaf's_ pleasure hours were from eight in the evening through to four in the morning. We could therefore, roam London, or we might return to Baker Street.

Our sitting-room was warm still when we entered, but cast in shadows for the curtains remained open and the lamps had not been lit. I called down to Mrs. Hudson for a pot of tea and sandwiches that I might persuade Holmes to eat before embarking on our evening jaunt. He sat in his fireside chair, his knees drawn up and body hunched over, chin pushed forward to rest atop. It always amused me to see him so perched; like a great roosting bird. 

Presently we heard the clatter of the tea-tray, and light footsteps make their way upstairs. A pause, then, while the carrier deliberated how best they might open the door. A light thud; an elbow, possibly, worrying unsuccessfully at the handle. I took pity on the lad, strode to the door and pulled it open.

Billy straightened up. The tray had come off the worse for his endeavour, for a little liquid from the pot had overflowed, the cups and saucers swimming.

“Sorry, Doctor,” said he, setting it down upon the table, “I made a big swill, but I'll mop it straight up.” He did so with a childlike flourish. “Your tea an' sandwiches!” he announced, so proudly.

“Thank you, Billy,” said Sherlock Holmes from his suited coil. He raised his head, then, tentative. “Did you make those sandwiches yourself?”

“Naw, Mr. Holmes, not me. Mrs. Hudson says she can't trust me with the bread knife yet.” He giggled. “You'd 'ave some funny looking cheese an' pickle doorstops if she did.” He bowed awkwardly, backing quickly from the room.

“Well, thank goodness for that,” said my friend. He picked one from the plate. “John, the tray is wet.”

“It was wetter,” I said. “I rather enjoy cheese and pickle doorstops,” I added, wistful. “Something to look forward to, perhaps.”

The late afternoon had turned quiet, the Baker Street heave winding down for the day. The heavy rain pattered to drizzle, and as we warmed ourselves through, my thoughts turned to the evening and what we might find. I felt sad for whatever motives had pushed young Victor towards his folly, for ultimately they had led to unhappiness, and surely not worth the prize. Could anything be salvaged?

At seven o'clock, we donned our hats and coats once more (oh joyous rain), and ventured out to pay our evening calls.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“London at night,” I said softly and half to myself, sniffing at the air. It smelled fresh and damp; almost washed clean. Our cab had dropped us at the corner of Tomkin Street, where Victor Burroughs took his lodgings, and we were strolling down it now. The further along we walked, the greater wafts of something foul came up to meet us. The street was a raging eyesore: discarded barrels, empty boxes, slop and rubbish all around. Holmes looked up at the buildings, counting off the painted number-plates.

“I could think of better streets to live,” said he. “ _The Portent's_ pay packets must be miserly.”

“However does Victor afford his membership at the Diogenes?” I wondered aloud. “The patrons there are mostly well-to-do. This is not a respectable neighbourhood, Holmes.”

“No,” said my friend, “it is not.”

We came to a halt at number forty-three. A four-storey red-brick, relatively well maintained for all we could observe from where we stood. Holmes stepped to the bell, and rang it once, then twice. We heard footsteps in the hall. 

The door was opened by an elderly gentleman, stooped and frail, who peered up at us through fractured spectacles. He smiled faintly through the evening dim.

“You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he.


	8. A Certain Influence

Holmes shook the old man's gnarled and mottled hand.

“I confess that you hold me at a disadvantage,” said he. “I am indeed Sherlock Holmes.” He peered past the man into the candle-lit hallway. “You own this house.”

Our friend nodded, smiled; a toothless grin. He was really, very old. I wondered if he lived alone or had someone to take care of him.

“Yes, that's right,” said the man, “I am the owner and landlord. Alfred Smith is my name. I'm seventy-eight years old,” he added with some pride. “And seventy-nine next birthday, next month. Victor told me he thought it likely you would visit. Smart-dressed gentleman, tall and 'andsome; that's what 'e said. Hee hee! Come on in, then, both.”

We followed Smith into his hall which was bare-boarded, long and narrow. A tight staircase led up from it to the first floor, where we heard a flute's soft lilt: the sweet notes curling minimed whorls through the splintered cracks and gaps.

“That's Miss Fi,” said Smith, his head turned ceiling-up beside us. “Lovely young lass, but that's all she does. _Poot-poot!_ Puffing away for hours on end like a mad little sparrow. 'Twould be nice if she gave it a bloody rest once in a while, excuse my French. Come on up, then, come see our Victor.”

The landing was roughly carpeted: a faded, threadbare behemoth. We walked along it to a far door, past the twittering of the flute, past several silent rooms and to the end. Smith dealt this last door a meaty thump, accompanied by a cackle. “That'll wake 'im up,” said he.

After an interval, the door opened. Victor's shy face emerged, blinking out, a dazed owl, at the three of us.

“You was 'avin' a nap, yes, we know,” said old Smith. “Well, you've got visitors now. Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes and this 'ere other gent. I'll be seein' you then. Seein' you. Goodbye for now, then.”

The landlord affably chuntered his way down the landing. 

“Good evening to you, Victor,” said my friend. “I am here. Apparently anticipated. Smartly dressed, tall, and... oh, what was the third...?”

Flushing, the young man ushered us into his rooms. In contrast with the hallway but in keeping with the front, these living quarters were neat and well looked after. The furniture was old, but crocheted throws in a craze of multi-colours brightened up the chairs and sofa. A small breakfast table spread over with an embroidered cloth of poppies stood against one of the walls. Its purpose seemed as much for the proud display of family photographs as for dining. A very recent attempt at white-painting the walls and the ceiling had been made, for the faint smell of it lingered still. A door at the far side of the room led off, I presumed, to the sole bedroom. Victor hovered, anxious for us to sit and take our comfort.

“Please, do take a seat, the both of you,” said he. He looked to my friend. “I just knew, somehow, that you should come to see me. You had that look about you at the office. You were unhappy with the information I provided.” 

The lad turned away to set a kettle to the stove to prepare some tea. Holmes leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp and keen.

“You provided remarkably _little_ information, Victor,” said he. “But I have since spoken with Inspector Gregson, who has clarified things somewhat. Would you care to confide with us now? There are no other ears to hear it.”

Victor stared in dismay. Mention of Gregson, if expected, had the most acute effect. The tea forgotten, the lad sat back against the sofa, mouth twitching, silent.

“What did Tobias tell you?” he asked at last.

Holmes shook his head.

“No,” said he firmly. “I shall not make it as easy as that. Gregson has told us all that he knows. Now you must tell us likewise. And perhaps by the end of the day we shall begin to make sense of this fiasco.”

“I wish that I had never breathed a word of it,” the lad blurted out. “I wish that I might have stood up for myself. But I was, and am, afraid. I have made the most terrible mess of things. My life is ruined now.”

“Here now,” I said, concerned, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Do not dream of saying such a thing. I am sure that it is not. Just be candid with us. Never mind about the tea, Victor, it is all right.”

“Well then,” said the young man, “I shall tell you how it is. I am being blackmailed, Mr. Holmes. Ah, you nod, as if you expected such a thing? So, the price for this blackguard's silence was to ensure that as little news as possible – and preferably none at all – which related to the telegraph murders, should be relayed to the Press. It was known that I held a certain _influence_ , shall we call it, with Tobias, and that with some small persuasion I might be able to make it so. This was at the time of the first murder – simple enough – and so I thought it could be done, despite the tweaking of my conscience. 

“I invented a story. I was writing a “piece” for my paper that I felt might be my breakthrough. Tobias believed me. The deed was done, or so I thought. But then another boy was found murdered, and it all began again. Oh, Mr. Holmes, it was quite dreadful. Tobias was so trusting, but I could tell he was unhappy with our agreement. Eventually, he suspected something was amiss, and we argued frequently about it. And then he ended it.”

Victor scrubbed at his face with his fist. To conceal his emotion, I did not doubt it. He looked around to my friend.

“It is an indication of Tobias' loyalty that he has kept fairly true to his word despite our fracture.”

Holmes had listened intently to this confession. When finally he spoke, his voice was gentle. 

“Victor, can you please tell me the name of your blackmailer, and what he claimed to hold against you?”

“Mr. Holmes, I am afraid to. The fellow may not react so well if he is challenged. He has been discreet about it. I do not believe that he will make any further requests of me when this is finished. He had found out about my relationship, however, and threatened to ruin Tobias's career if I did not manage as he said. How could I stand by and let that happen?”

“That is noble of you, Victor. Extremely noble. I would urge you to confide in us, nonetheless. There is an equal risk, still, as your blackmailer finds he can bend you to his will.”

Victor hung his head in conflict. 

“It is Hedgings,” said he, eventually. Then: “Please, Mr. Holmes, I beg you, do not confront him. It is all just some silly scheme, I think, to get one over on the other papers. He will write up an editorial – of course, he would not pass such a thing to me, a lowly columnist – and have his scoop. He is not the best of his kind, but he surely cannot be the worst.”

Holmes was silent for one moment. 

“Victor, are you at all familiar with _The Fig Leaf?_ ” 

The young man shook his head, bewildered.

“No, Mr. Holmes, why, should I be? What is it?”

My friend smiled thinly. “A small drinking club. But you have not heard of it, and so it cannot be of consequence. Well, then.” He looked around him at the humble room. “Would it be terribly impolite if I enquired as to how you afford your Diogenes fee?”

“It is a gift from my Aunt Augusta,” Victor replied. He smiled. “It amuses us both that the club is a silent one. Your brother Mycroft is a wonderful man, Mr. Holmes.”

“I'll admit he can be, on rare occasions,” said my friend with a quirk of the lip.

Our talk turned around, and took a lighter footing. And as the tea-kettle bubbled merrily upon the stove at last, Holmes glanced across to me. _I never had any doubt_ , those expressive grey eyes seemed to say. 

And I should not have dreamed of countering it with a glance of my own that said: _Oh, I think perhaps you did, just for a little while, my love._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“John, you might like to go home,” said my friend, as we returned up the malodorous Tomkin Street in hopeful search of an available cab. “I need to throw my head in at the _Leaf_ , and _this_ time optimistically without paying any entrance charge. That might pose a more serious problem with the two of us. I think you would be bored, also. I wish only to see if Pike is there, as well as the bounder Hedgings.”

“I should rather like to remain, in the event you find some need of my assistance,” I replied hotly. “You are planning to confront the fellow, after all? I would urge you to be careful--”

“Well, of _course_ I intend to be careful,” Holmes interrupted irritably. “When am I ever not? Don't answer that,” he added. “Go home. I shall see you later. I promise not to talk to any strange men.” He pinched my arm lightly.

It was with some misgivings that I hopped up into a hansom as we reached the main road at last, and watched my friend as he drifted back into the crowd. At home I poured myself a brandy, smoked my pipe and mulled over the events of this extraordinary day. Alarmed by the mess of revelations, nonetheless, I found cautious optimism that all might not be lost where matters of the heart should be concerned. I wondered as to other motives, the stranger ways of men and, finally, how Holmes was faring and how much longer he would be. I vowed that if he was not home by midnight, to seek him out. Fortunate, then, that I heard the downstairs door slam just a little after the half-past eleven strike. I put down my pipe and looked up, expectant.

Holmes entered the room. To my relief he was still in one piece.

“John,” said he, surprised. “You waited up.”

“Of course I waited up,” I replied. “I was anxious.”

My friend smiled. He walked to the sideboard, emptied his pockets, then moved across to the fireplace.

“Whatever is that abominable aroma?” he enquired.

“Plum and Rum tobacco. Holmes, what happened? Who did you see? Why are you being so damnably secretive?”

Holmes lit his own pipeful of shag and sucked at it, ravenous.

“I saw who I needed to see,” he replied. “Also, _what_ I needed to see, more precisely. Tomorrow, John, I shall tie up this case.” He nodded at my astonishment. “Yes. I have solved it. All bar the rosette attached to the top.”

“Holmes, but that is magnificent!” I exclaimed. “Don't leave me on tenterhooks. Tell me exactly what happened after I left you.”

He beckoned me to the sofa where we sat, he nestled close against my side, my shoulder as a sturdy bolster.

“It has been a long day,” said he. “Do I really have to?”

“Oh, _you_.” I grabbed a fistful of his hair, kissed his head, his temple, cheek, whatever part of him I might reach. He chuckled, squirming. His joy in victory, irresistible. “Do Scotland Yard know? Are there any risks in waiting 'til the morning?”

“John, if there were risks, do you really believe that I should wait?” He reached over for my brandy glass; took a large sip. “I would wish merely to draw your attention to the hands.”

“Whose hands? Whatever do you mean? And why should they be important? _Holmes!_ ”

It appeared, however, that they were. But whose? And, to repeat the question, _why?_


	9. Bignose Strikes Again

“The hands are always of importance,” said Sherlock Holmes the following morning, as we sat together at the table laid for an exceedingly late breakfast. “Together with a fellow's trouser-knees, coat-sleeves and boots. I may as well point out that the latter three in this instance hold no bearing.”

“Thank you for that,” I replied. “But _what_ of the hands?” I took a large bite of buttered toast. “It is very unfair of you to keep me waiting when you know how curious I am.”

My friend smiled and hummed, chivvied his eggs around his plate. He had risen early, left without me and taken several hours upon his mysterious endeavour. Upon his return – a triumphant one, given his air – he called for Mrs. Hudson that she might make ready with our meal, and drew me to him in the all-consuming bear-grip that he likes to call a hug.

“You must forgive me,” said he now, “I may have misled you in my mischief. For you never actually saw the hands in question.” He chuckled to himself. “I was merely pointing out that it is vital to observe, to let no detail pass you by.”

I poured a second cup of coffee. “It is indeed impossible for me to observe what I never saw in the first place,” I countered, irked. “Tell me everything now, or I shall set about you with my fork.”

“I was uncommonly slow to begin with,” said he, leaning back in his chair and reaching out for his pipe. “So much vague and fractured data; no wonder Scotland Yard were in the fog as much as I. The first clue to set me on my trail was courtesy of the landlord of The Silver Acorn, which led us on to Langdale Pike and rather more valuable information. Himself an occasional visitor to _The Fig Leaf_ , he was familiar with the 'little ruffians', and during idle conversation learned of the connection by their day work. This drinking club, then, seemed to hold a valuable plethora of secrets.

“We met with Gregson, deep in his cups, and shared in his sorrow and complaint of certain gentlemen with whom he would prefer not to share his drinking space. Namely, one Mr. Barnabas Hedgings, editor of the struggling _Portent_ and employer of Victor Burroughs. And what of the cronies surrounding this fellow, of whom our Inspector made a brief but sour mention? 

“Other names to add, although none with direct motive. Old Featherbank of Camden Telegraph, the manager of those lads. Gideon Galloway, who was the owner of the _Leaf_. Pike himself – although one might ask why he should have provided us with data, unless it was a cunning blind. Any one of the club's patrons, then, who harboured a bitter grudge. It was only by speaking with the remaining fellows at the bar that I was able, by some persuasion, to narrow down the possibilities.”

Listening to all of this, I exhaled around my coffee cup.

“That is all very well and good, Holmes, but we had a clear description of the killer, did we not? A stocky gentleman with a big nose and neat moustache, who was dressed in a dark Ulster.” I frowned again at the rankling memory. “And who had the temerity to use my name when challenged.”

My friend swept away my bleat with a wave of his hand.

“John, it could only be a madman who would enter enemy territory so brazenly without some measure of disguise: some padding in the clothing, a false moustache. A nose is an altogether more difficult thing to conceal, for not everyone has my own peculiar talent in the field of make-up.” He tossed his head slightly. “And as for using your own name, yes, that was a singular lapse. To provoke? Well, possibly. But exceptionally odd behaviour. Why endeavour to arouse suspicion in an office full of witnesses? Your name – in conjunction with my own, I might fairly add – is not unfamiliar to the London populace, thanks due in part to your diligent scribbles. A criminal naturally keeps a close eye to the papers and the sensational reports. And if one makes note of a name or hears it often in close context, it must eventually worm its way through the subconscious. At the point, then, where one is placed in an unwitting panic, that same name springs to the surface and lo and behold, the damage done. Our large-nosed friend is not the brightest lamp in the square.

“So let me ask you now, John, what might be the primary reason for a fellow to commit such crimes against those lads with their linked history?”

I tapped the stem of my teaspoon against the tablecloth in thought.

“Theft?” I suggested. “Something was stolen, and the killer was desirous for its return.”

Holmes shook his head.

“Even accounting for retrieval of the item by force, that could not justify the prolonged attacks on all of the boys in those deserted locations. None of the victims' families reported any instances of burglary. No. Try again.”

“Revenge, then. Lads of that type and that age can wield a sharp tongue, in wit or defence or simple discourtesy. They insulted the killer to the point where he felt the need to retaliate.”

“That is closer to the truth, John,” said my friend. “Close, but no cigar.” He winked. “What manner of grievous insult could have provoked such retribution? A verbal insult? I think not. Come on, now. Think as a doctor.”

“Oh!” I screwed up my face. “Venereal disease.”

Holmes nodded. “Infection is rife within that line of work. The horror of contracting a particularly virulent strain, and of passing that on a loved one at home. Imagine being faced with the consequences, the realisation of what you have done. A loyal wife, infected, with any infant in her womb, and a marriage is destroyed. Yes, John, it is that which you are thinking of. There is treatment by way of mercury, but the side effects are as toxic as the disease. One of the symptoms is a skin rash which erupts on the palms of the hands. Barnabas Hedgings was wearing a pair of thin leather gloves when I first met him at The Portent. It was not until our next encounter at the _Leaf_ , with all of its softer lighting in which he no doubt felt less self-conscious, that I observed that which others might not.

“He was already drunk, when I arrived at the club. He was surprised to see me, but you know me, John, I am able to perform as well as any actor on the stage. I professed my ignorance as to the club's machinations, only that I was here to meet an old friend for drinks and talk, but dear me, it appeared my friend was running late. I accepted an invite to sit down at their table. I was never so garrulous; I drew he and his cronies in to some full-blooded talk. Ugh. At my insistent prompting, our man spoke, hesitantly, of his family: his wife, their young children. At mention of the children, however, he became quite agitated, upset and then sullen. It took a fresh tumbler of whisky to put the gab back into him. I observed that he would keep looking towards the bar where the young lads were clustered. The friends that he had with him, who were quite as bawdy as reported, made a keen study. Trannock was a _delight_. I use that descriptive very loosely, John. A delight only in that I was familiar with the name, of his being a notorious crook; and the fellow himself, although clean-shaven, was the proud owner of the most splendidly bulbous nose. He was fairly disturbed to have me seated next to him. Can you see where this is taking us?”

“I am beginning to,” I replied. “Let me see if I can follow your reasoning, Holmes. Barnabas Hedgings, at certain intervals in the past, visits the _Leaf_ and takes advantage of its first floor hospitality with a number of young men. At a later date and to his shame and horror, he discovers he has contracted a venereal disease, which he has now passed to his wife and quite possibly an infant child. He swears revenge, but has no inkling as to which of the men might be the carrier. For all he knows, it could be all of them. He is filled with a violent fury fuelled further by his heavy drinking. He does not wish to dirty his own hands, however. He has some connections within the criminal underworld and learns that the fellow... Trannock, did you say?... is willing to carry out certain services for a sum. Trannock accompanies Hedgings to the club that he might familiarise himself with the faces there. He assumes a disguise and then, over a period of months, sets out to do his selective work. Am I warm?”

Holmes flashed an approving smile.

“I shall make a detective of you yet,” said he. “You have set it out most admirably. Trannock's method and research is rather lacking. The lads work late at the club, and leave as a group in the early hours. No possibility at that time of picking any of them off. He learns from Hedgings that a number of them are employed at Camden Telegraph. He is ignorant of their names but would recognise their faces. He makes his bumbling enquiry under cover of disguise, finds out a little information but falls into a panic and selects the first name that pops into his head. Discreetly, he follows his chosen lad out on his telegraph route, most likely during late afternoon when it is dark and with less risk of being seen. At a convenient location – down a side alley, very likely – he makes his move. A poorly aimed strike to the back of the head in order to stun the boy, and then to hustle him away to an adjacent dump, to bind his limbs lest he should rouse, and then to strangle with the cord. By some good fortune in each case he leaves no evidence or witness to the crime. But then we recall each property was either beside a clamant factory yard or stables, or alongside a busy rail track, and we begin to comprehend.

“Meanwhile, Hedgings is covering their tracks as best he might by way of blackmailing poor Victor. He continues to drink at the _Leaf_ to try to catch wind of any loose bar talk, and to spy on Gregson too, when he is there, perhaps. A nasty piece of work, John, when all is said and done. Only a severely unbalanced mind could contemplate such a melee. So. Returning to last night, then, I left that table with them all fairly paralytic, and came back home to you. This morning, I went straight to Scotland Yard. Believe me, Gregson was only too pleased to have them both hauled in for questioning. And it was a raucous bedlam when Trannock made a slip and it all came out as I have detailed. He places fuller blame on Hedgings, and we shall see. Full justice will be carried, I am happy to say.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, aghast. “If Hedgings contracted that disease at the club, then wouldn't that mean that Gregson may potentially...?”

Holmes stood away from the table, moved to my side and drew me up, pulling me over to the sofa where we sat.

“Inspector Gregson,” said my friend, “is all great bluff and bluster, and still too very much in love with a certain columnist to have any desire to stray.”

“But! He told me that he--” I stopped abruptly, reluctant to make mention of the professed _“standing at half-mast”._

“Yes, he told us both a great many things,” said Holmes impatiently. “But through a haze of swagger and Scotch whisky. He assures me that he never took physical advantage of the boys, John. He felt alone, and was in need of empathetic company and talk; some harmless coquetry at most. I do believe him. I also believe that he and Victor should stand another chance. I pushed him off in that direction, and hope to see them reunited if all goes well. Any evidential barbs that Hedgings may now fling in desperation should not catch their target, for he is sunk.”

“I love you,” I told him.

He smiled shyly. (The exceptional smile that melts my heart.)

“I love you too,” said he.

“You romantic man.”

“John, now just _hush_ about that.”

“You clever, _clever_ man.”

“That is altogether better.”

“I am going to lock the door,” I said, and did so. Holmes eyed me from the sofa. I knew what he should say before it even left his lips. _“It is the middle of the day, John, whatever are you thinking of?”_ I mimicked. He smirked.

I hunkered close to him. I kissed his neck and throat, caressed his leanness through the impediment of cloth to his brace buttons. I lowered my hand and kneaded him there, all the while lapping at his skin. I heard his soft whine of arousal, felt his swell beneath the wool. He latched on to me then, took hold of my face, drew me up that he might kiss my mouth. We remained that way for minutes, enjoying our slow pleasure. At length he fumbled with his buttons that I might gain closer access.

“This is highly inappropriate, John,” he whispered into my ear.

“Says the man who just opened his fly.”

I drew him out fully erect, already beading.

“Inadvisable,” he continued.

“I really don't care,” I said.

I swoop down to tongue and taste the bead. His hips judder in response; he grasps my hair. A low expletive tailing on a moan. 

My lips close soft around the head, move down to take in all I can, to rise and drop, constrict my throat around his bulk. If he were able, he would howl. But it is midday, we are in the sitting-room, and it is highly inappropriate. He gnaws on his arm to muffle what he can; my fingers dig into his hips to keep him anchored.

“ _John_ , I'm going to--”

And he does.

I swallow him down.

Miraculously, we have not made a mess of anything. 

He blinks, regains his senses, watches as I tuck him back inside and fasten up.

“Thank you,” he says. I smile. His face is beautiful and flushed. He reaches out to dab away a smattered corner of my mouth. “Ugh,” he says.

“On the contrary,” I tell him, licking, “you are delicious.”

More delicious, even, than a leisurely Sunday lunch with Mycroft, which is but two days from now and which we look forward to immensely.


	10. An Old Holmes Diet

Come the Sunday, there was a blizzard. Huge and heavy snowflakes whipped against the windows of our carriage as we made the journey to Mycroft's house. I clutched our gifts in their paper bundle against my chest as if they might atrophy from the cold. I reached for Holmes's hand, he sat beside me looking out.

“Where are your gloves?” I chided him.

He shrugged.

“I did not see the point,” said he. “From the house to the carriage to Mycroft. Exactly where within that sequence would I require a pair of gloves?”

“But...” I gave up. I grabbed his hand and huffed hot breath on it, rubbed the circulation back to life. “Idiot man,” I said. From the corner of my eye I saw him smile and turn his head to the city beyond in its bunker of white. 

Wreaths of smoke, from so many chimneys. I imagined aromatic kitchens, roistering children and aproned mothers preparing for their Sunday feast: roast lamb or goose or beef cooked to perfection. The Holmes' cook was a kindly woman and a wonder, and her portions were not sparing. My mouth watered from the anticipation.

Stepping down from the carriage some ten minutes from then, we delicately manoeuvred the snow path to the front door. Welcomed in by the young maid, we stood a moment in the hall to stamp our feet, remove our coats.

“My hands are absolutely like ice,” said Holmes.

We were shown into the drawing room. My friend charged straight to the fireplace and thrust himself before it, shaking his head. I began to laugh. He glanced over his shoulder.

“It is unkind to make fun,” he complained. “And this fire needs a poking.”

“It is you that needs the poking,” I said, moving close beside him, setting down my bundle and stretching my hands towards the flames. “In more ways than one.” I looked around at the now familiar room. “New paintings,” I observed, at the several on the wall. “How lovely.”

From far away inside the house we heard the clatter of a saucepan and the crying of a baby. A cavalcade of doors in their opening and closing and footsteps becoming louder. A tall and broader figure paused in the doorway of the drawing room.

“Sherlock. John,” said Mycroft Holmes, “you have no idea how pleased I am to see you.” 

He stepped into the room to shake my hand and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

“You should have worn gloves,” the elder admonished.

“Oh, for heaven's sake.” My friend wheeled around in exasperation at our chuckling. “If your house could be just a _little_ warmer, Mycroft, then I should not be shivering like a jelly. John has _things_ ,” he added, pointing to me.

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” I said. I picked up the bundle and unwrapped it, producing a bottle and thin cardboard package. “A rather nice Rioja, and almond ring biscuits for you, Mycroft.” (The last in a clandestine whisper.)

“John,” said Mycroft Holmes, “there are no words. Except, thank you. And thank you again. Allow me to pour some sherry for you both.”

We sipped at the excellent Fino and listened in amusement to Mycroft's rendition of family life.

“I enjoy it immensely, I actually do,” said he, “and yet I confess I can hardly wait until the house count reduces by one.” 

“Sophronia's mother is a most charming woman,” said my friend with an impish smile. “I am sure that she provides invaluable assistance to your wife and Jeremiah.”

“That may be true,” Mycroft replied. “But she provides it with such _enthusiasm_. Ideas for this and improvements for that. All in an upper register that would deafen an African elephant. Sherlock, I--”

I had leapt up in the meanwhile, for Sophronia Holmes had entered the room. Sweet and serene, she hastened across. I raised her hand to place a kiss; she drew me to her in light embrace.

“Oh John,” said she, “I am so glad that you are here. My husband is talking about my mother, I think? I heard mention of African elephants.” She giggled.

Mycroft, waving, beckoned his wife. She perched up close atop his armrest, he laying a hand light upon her waist. It recalled to me so clearly how Holmes and I might sit in our own rooms: intimate and in love. I watched as Sophronia leaned across to speak to my friend – of recent casework, theatre, home. I heard Holmes's mention of young Billy. Sophronia appeared delighted by the story.

“He will be your protégée,” said she. “He sounds a smart young fellow.” She rose and straightened down her front. “Come now, all of you, you must see Jeremiah. He has been so very good today.”

The nursery was cosy, warm from the crackling fire which lit the room in amber glow. Filled to bursting with enchantments: mobiles and chimes and colourful home-made decoration. We tiptoed over to the crib and peeped inside. There he lay, the four-month babe, fast asleep beneath his quilt.

“He has grown so quickly,” I said, amazed. “He was such a tiny mite. He has quite the full head of hair now.”

Sophronia stroked the boy's cheek with a gentle finger.

“I put him down thirty minutes ago,” said she. “After he was frightened by the saucepan. If we are blessed, then we might make it all the way through luncheon before he wakes.” She looked up to us with a smile. “It is Nettie's day off.”

“And I am glad about that,” said Mycroft, behind us. “For it is a whole day's respite from making thaumatropes.”

“Oh, you,” his wife fondly scolded, “you only made three. They turned out very well. You managed to paint inside all of the lines.”

I was unable to predict or even stop the loud snort of laughter from my friend. He ducked sideways to avoid the sharp nudge to his ribs and continued to cackle.

“Do be quiet,” said Mycroft, his cheeks spotted pink, “you will wake Jeremiah.”

“I apologise,” said Holmes, “but it is really too amusing.” He headed for the door. “I am going to visit Cook. If I am lucky we might get a cake out of it, John.” He vanished.

Sophronia slipped an arm through mine.

“You wear matching rings,” said she. “I never noticed that before.” She rested her head against my shoulder as we gazed down into the crib. 

“You have known for a while though, I think,” I said softly.

“Yes,” she replied. She squeezed my arm. 

Luncheon was roast goose, with sautéed potatoes, parsnips, carrots and the trimmings. The table was set for four, Mrs Guillory out to visit with a friend. Every mouthful was delectable, each sip of rich red wine divine. We lingered over stewed fruit and custard crumble, then sat with cigars and coffee as Sophronia tended to their son.

“I really must ask Cook how she prepares her goose,” I said. “Mrs. Hudson should be pleased to learn her secret.”

My friend chuckled at my side.

“I rather think Mrs. Hudson might be offended that you consider her own to be in want of such improvement,” said he. “The way a woman's mind works is a mystery.”

We spoke of little Jeremiah, of his parents' hopes for him even at this early age.

“With all of our shared influence he will be fortunate indeed,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Surrounded by guardian angels.”

“More fortunate than most boys,” my friend agreed. “For some never are so privileged and suffer the negligence of angels.”

Encouraged to remain the greater part of the day, we played cards: Bridge, and my own favourite, Gin Rummy. The shadows fell in increments, and at length Sophronia rose to light the lamps. It was so pleasant to be with family, to be accepted as we were. A long road, and yet the arrival made it all the more worthwhile.

We took our leave eventually a few minutes past five o'clock. Mycroft made arrangements for his own carriage and we were grateful, for the snow had not relented and the roads were thickly blistered. With fond farewells we climbed into our seats, wrapped as best we might against the chill, and leaned into each other as the wheels turned back for home.

“I like Mycroft more and more,” I yawned, “and Sophronia is an extraordinary woman.”

Holmes pressed his lips against my cheek, and the carriage rattled on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That Sunday was the tenth. The following Thursday, I was awakened very early in the morning. A sharp chin buffeted my clavicle.

“John,” said a voice directly in my ear, “wake up.”

I opened my eyes, twisted around. Holmes was propped up and looking down at me.

“At last,” said he. “I was about to resort to the violin.”

“To play a tune, or knock over my head?” I enquired, still rousing from my grog. “Was I snoring? What _time_ is it?”

He pinched my thigh beneath the blankets.

“Six o'clock. Don't pull a face. Do you still remember Sunday?”

“Of course I remember Sunday. It was a very special day.”

“Do you recollect what it was you said, while we were standing by the fire?”

I frowned. “Something about you forgetting your gloves.”

Holmes smiled. “No, not that.” 

He wriggled onto his back. 

“You may _poke_ me at your leisure,” said he, quiet and deeply serious. “Happy Valentine's Day,” he added.

It surprised a laugh out of me at any rate. I rolled over then and onto him, looked down into those twinkling grey eyes.

“That is such a crude thing to say, Holmes.”

“That is your fault entirely, John. I find it still infinitely preferable to _'goat's jigg'_.”

I pulled his nightshirt up and over his head and cast it aside to the floor.

“If this was a Brontë novel then it ought to continue as _'Reader, I poked him,'_ ” I mused. 

I leaned forward and tongued a soft nipple, grazed the nub hard between my teeth. He in turn dragged up my own flannel and clasped a handful where he might. I felt his fingers wander, tickle, and a leg rise to hook around me. And then – oh! – a finger – moist – invading my own tight portal. Duplicity! I gasped at the sheer, warm stun of it. Shoeing in and out, a slender inch, a finger-fuck. I continued to moan, overcome.

“I have decided to turn the tables,” whispered he in all his devilment.

“Don't stop. Don't you damned well stop. Oh my god.”

I heard his delighted chuckle. 

I felt a second finger. I began to writhe against him. Our pricks clashed, exquisite chafing, an erect _affaire d'honneur._

I raised up from his chest, sought his mouth and kissed it hard. Between each kiss, I groaned; _we_ groaned, my friend quite as affected by our frotting.

“The oil,” I gasped, wanting more, wanting it all.

“Then I shall have to stop,” said he from out between clenched teeth. “I am not – _ah!_ – not an octopus, John.”

I fumbled inside the cabinet drawer, remaining somehow still attached to the pumping fingers. I spilled a little of the oil most everywhere, but mainly where it was needed, exchanging two dexterous fingers for something equally as fine. I lowered myself upon it, guttural. We rocked and listed, loud, and louder yet, until profound glory, simultaneous.

We lay entwined and panting. I felt him gradually soften, and lamented the slow slide. I kissed him, languorous.

“A rare honour,” I said, “thank you so much, my love.”

We nestled down together, drew up the blankets, snug and warm. 

My friend pressed both lips against my ear: a secret, a confidence.

“ _'Reader, I poked him,'_ ” said Sherlock Holmes, in the softest of whispers.

 

\- END -


End file.
